


Mezzanine

by DemAmphi



Series: Pavlov [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, M/M, Miscellaneous others - Freeform, Other, Psychological Trauma, Rape Aftermath, Suicidal Thoughts, Torture
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-08-22
Updated: 2016-07-21
Packaged: 2018-02-14 02:40:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 35
Words: 353,980
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2175042
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DemAmphi/pseuds/DemAmphi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The authentic continuation of Pavolv's Dog, for those readers who would like to keep on with the original story as written. There are still many, many chapters left to be published, but it does have an end, we promise.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Still I Rise

**Author's Note:**

> Chapter 59 should be completely disregarded, it is not a linear fit to the start of this chapter. To properly be read, you should go from 58 straight to 60. We know this is a bit confusing and apologize to those of you who mean so much to us, and want to keep on reading the original story.

Paul could hear John shifting and struggling under the bed. He kept his voice quiet, and while he remained calm, he allowed empathy to seep into his tone. "John, Greg is still here in the building. He was afraid, and he removed himself as he believed he was hurting you further." 

He slowly eased down so that from several yards away, he could see John. He laid on his stomach, pillowing his head on his hands in an effort to keep his posture non-threatening. "What you heard Greg say, 'Just do it,' he was telling me to hurry with your medication. He wanted to let you go so that he could comfort you, and I was taking too much time. You were held in a tight embrace, you were against his chest as he was sitting up. He did not push you to the bed and hold you on your back, John. You were wrapped in a blanket and cradled, albeit tightly, to keep you from injuring yourself." 

John shuffled backwards to the far corner of his bed. Nobody could hurt him under here, not without knives or water or electricity, but he wasn't afraid of Paul cutting him. Surely he couldn't be dragged out. 

Paul's words made sense to him, but it was still a difficult concept to grasp. His mind told him something so blatantly opposite to what Paul had described, even though he lacked the aftermath. "You could be lying so I'll come out and you can hurt me." He didn't think that was the case, but it still frightened him. "If I wasn't...hurt...why did that have to happen? Why was I sedated? Why did he hold me? Why didn't someone fucking _EXPLAIN_ what was going on?"

Paul waited for the anger to ring out of the room, the vibrations to fade into the walls, before he tried again. "John, you can stay there all day if you'd like. I'm here to make sure you don't forget that you are not in Moriarty's custody any longer. Greg and I did try to explain. We did. Sedating you was a last-ditch effort. You were in psychological pain and everything we did was making it worse. You were a danger to yourself. Greg and I made a judgement call. I am very sorry it has confused you." 

John had scratch marks down the sides of his face and neck. They didn't hurt terribly, but he could feel them faintly. Why he chose to focus on such a feeling, he wasn't sure. "I don't like this. I don't like you, or water, or having to fight to stay calm. I don't like forcing myself to be calm and I don't like not being calm. I don't like being asleep and I don't like being awake. I hate all of this. I hurt Sherlock, I hurt Greg, and I hurt myself, apparently. What is the point to any of this?"

Paul gave John a gentle smile. "You like outside. You like the tree. You like how the bark feels, and how the sky looks when the sun is setting. You like to listen to Sherlock play the music he wrote for you. You like to watch films with Greg. You like to laugh. You like to be touched when it's someone you trust. You calm Sherlock down drastically. He's only ever looked anywhere close to peace when you are with him. Greg loves you, and it gives him such fulfillment to help you, to sit with you. As for yourself, you rarely hurt yourself. I know you've been scratching, but you are not refusing your medications, you allow feedings and fluids, you do as much as you mentally can to help yourself. The point is what you make it, John." 

\---

Greg curled on his side, his arms wrapped tight around his chest, staring out across the room. When he spoke, he sounded distant, detached again as it all overwhelmed him and pulled him down. "I'll...I'll do what I can to get him back with your brother...then...I'll get out of the way." 

Mycroft waited for Greg to finish before he spoke again, gently, quietly. "That isn't what I want. A long term solution involves you staying with John. You need to stay with him for him to sustain this. He can not be with Sherlock all the time, and if he goes into a panic Sherlock won't be much good to him."

Greg gave Mycroft a slow shadow of a nod, speaking in the same detached, disconnected way he had before. "Okay. I'll stay until I'm no longer required for their well being." He'd allowed himself to invest his heart, and that had been supremely foolish. He was desperately trying to put walls up.

Mycroft sat down at the edge of Greg's bed. "You love him. You love him dearly. He knows that, and I am willing to bet that it's what is keeping him going. He wants to help Sherlock, but he loves you. If he thinks you are just prepping him for Sherlock, it will devastate him. We were making such progress. Don't you think you can continue? Just a bit longer?"

Greg moved a hand up and pinched away the tears slowly rolling down his face, furious with himself though he was too exhausted to be outwardly angry. "He does not know that I love him. He believes I am the lesser of all his evils, but evil nonetheless. I...Christ, Mycroft...I've no where else to be. I want to help. I want to help more than I could possibly explain, and I just keep ruining everything. If he wants me...and god only knows why he would...then of course I'll continue. He won't, though. It's too much...what he thinks I did...it's...that's n-not something..." he shook his head and dragged in a wavering breath, trying to calm down.

"Have you explained, in a way he would understand, what had happened?" Mycroft didn't want to be pushy, or accuse Greg of anything, but the state he had found the man in would hardly be conducive to John's condition. "You are a bit too close to this. Remember how he thought Sherlock had tortured him? He thought it was all Sherlock. Now he's doing what he can to help him. He's done a 180 on his feelings towards Sherlock, even if he is still afraid. It won't take nearly as long for John to realize it wasn't you, that you were just helping him. He'll understand soon. To leave him now, or to waver in your love, wouldn't help him understand."

Greg shrugged at Mycroft. "I tried. I...if he'd thought I'd...I don't know, anything other than...I mean _anything other_ and I've had held it together." He closed his eyes and made a valiant effort at squaring what Mycroft said of John's attitude towards Sherlock. Without opening his eyes, he softly responded, "He loves Sherlock, always has done." With another slow breath, Greg sat up, pressing his palm over his eyes. 

"He believed I would protect him. That's what I had to my advantage, that's why he wants me with him. Now he knows I won't. I'm useless to him if I'm not a source of protection. I'm back yet again to sitting outside his door, he'll never let me near him. He'll remember the water, and he'll remember this. I've...I'm useless here, Mycroft."

"Greg, it's clear you love John. He isn't just using you for protection. You and him were friends before, weren't you? Best mates? He's more dependent on you now, but you have a basis for your friendship that extends beyond the protection." Mycroft needed Greg to keep John safe and secure. Their relationship was what kept John going. Mycroft had seen it, seen how one touch from Greg would calm John considerably. 

"You're hurt. It makes sense you would be, that someone you've dedicated months to believes you capable of rape, but you have to understand that he isn't emotionally or mentally stable. He's been abused, and his mind is likely to fill in the gaps with what he knows to be true. He's known abuse, and when he is fuzzy on the details, he must jump to conclusions which have been correct in the past."

Greg nodded, dropping his hand away and gripping the side of the bed. "It's not his fault. I know it's not his fault. It is _mine_. I've not been sufficient enough to teach him that he is safe here, at the very least with me." He shifted on the bed and looked outside, nerves starting to thrum now that he was slightly calmer. It was incredibly uncomfortable to be physically away from John. 

"You needed him to distance from me. I believe that's successfully been done. Perhaps with me out of the way, he will better connect with Sherlock. It's not as though I've a choice in it. He'll not have me back." 

Mycroft closed his eyes. Everything seemed to be falling apart around him despite the environment of safety he tried to provide. "He will have you back. This is what happened when you tried to get him to shower. You didn't know that he'd been tortured with water, or that he would have such a severe reaction. You didn't know that holding him would make him think you were holding him down. He learned to love you and he will again. Listen to me when I say you being out of the picture will not help John, Sherlock, or their relationship towards each other."

Greg finally looked up at him. "What do you want me to do right now, Mycroft? I'll get up and go back in there, if that's what you want. I'll leave. I'll stay right here. I don't know what you want me to do. I don't want to go away. I want John. I'm not trying to make things harder, I honestly believe taking myself out of the picture is to everyone's benefit. If that's not true, then so be it." 

Mycroft didn't know what John's mental state was at the moment. He shot a quick text to Paul to get a better understanding. 

_What would you suggest Greg do?_

"Paul will have a better answer to that than I,” he said over the backlight of his mobile.

 

\-----

John put his hands together in front of him and intertwined his fingers. "I like the sky. The stars are nice." He kept his eyes locked on Paul. He didn't trust the man, but he offered some clarity to the situation, and John desperately needed an explanation other than Paul and Greg working together to rape him. The situation was starting to seem hopeless with Greg gone, and John was beginning to disconnect. "I like the tree. I've a tree in my mind too."

Paul watched him quietly for a little while. He smiled gently. "Greg told me you enjoy the stars. I imagine you've seen some spectacular skies in all your travels. The tree is a nice one, it is good that it's been allowed to grow. Is the tree in your mind similar?" 

John picked at a small bit of yarn that stuck up out of the carpet a bit more than the others. "It is. It's bigger though, and there aren't people. Nobody comes. It's my tree." He was content to sink down into his fantasy, in which he was invulnerable and safe far away from other people. 

Paul closed his eyes so that John could feel he had a physical advantage should he want it. "A tree where you can be alone sounds very nice. Sounds very safe. Do you feel safe anywhere else?"

John nodded, though Paul couldn't see. "It's safe. The sky is too. I can be in the sky, and they don't hurt me in the sky. Nobody hurts me in the sky.

Paul watched John, pleased that John had a means of mental escape. They would have to watch it closely, but it was something to work with. "John," he called out quietly, "I imagine at some point Greg is going to want to come back. Can you tell me what you think of that?"

John thought of how easy it would be to escape if he could fly, knock down doors and burn people. How simple that would be. "I want Greg back. I need him to come back. I don't like this at all and I have questions he needs to answer for me."

Paul nodded, showing John his phone. "They are asking if he can come in, I'll let them know." 

_John would prefer Greg come back, though I would advise against it if he is still so distraught._

"I'm not sure how he is at the moment, John. He may need to be seen by a doctor, I'm not sure." 

\---

Greg sat on the edge of the bed, staring down at his feet, hardly daring to breathe.  
Mycroft looked Greg over. "He says that John wants you back, but you shouldn't go if you are in distress." Mycroft pocketed his phone and folded his hands. "Do you believe you are able to comfort him without losing yourself?"

He watched as Greg slowly pushed himself up, standing in front of Mycroft and taking a moment to breathe. When he finally met Mycroft's eye, a brilliant stab of shame licked across him. "I will do my best," he said honestly, hands shaking though his posture was restored. 

He stepped back, squaring his shoulders and gathering up all the barriers he could muster to keep himself detached enough to get through this. He knew he was going back in to be verbally taken to task for his failures, was going to hear the pain and disappointment, likely betrayal, directed at him from John. He wasn't enough, but he could be the outlet for John's anger.

John let out a small whimper and shifted uncomfortably in his blanket. "Tell me again what happened, so I can try and believe it. I don't want to believe Greg helped you have me. I don't want to believe it. Just...just say it and I'll say it and it'll go away." John was willing to be trained if it removed this terrible ache. 

Paul calmly explained for a second time what had occurred, using the exact same language, wanting John to feel comfort in the consistency of the explanation.  
John had begun to cry in the middle of the explanation. It was, to him, a falsehood far preferable to the truth, but he was starting to poke holes in the scenario his mind had created for him. He had no pain, no soreness, or any other physical signs that he had been raped. The knot in his pants, which he had tied very specifically now, was his only testimony in favor of his panic driven idea of what had occurred. "My knot... They took my pants off. I said I didn't want to be examined."

Paul made a sound of agreement. "I know, John. I am very sorry that it was necessary. It was a gross oversight not to examine you when you were first brought in. Moriarty enjoyed taunting Sherlock with what he was doing to you, and never once was that form of abuse mentioned. Sherlock was seriously injured and we feared you may be suffering physically as well. It was required, John, for your health." 

Greg moved away from Mycroft, nausea churning in his gut. He hardly remembered the walk to John's room, lightly tapping on the door and letting himself in. Given Paul's position, it was clear that John was hiding under the bed. He closed his eyes and walked in quietly. "John?"

Greg's voice had the same comforting effect it always did, despite the recent perceived events. "Greg," he cried from under the bed, "Greg, please come help me. Please, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. Come back."

Greg moved to the side of the bed, folding his legs and sitting down. He looked at Paul, who had his eyes on John. "John," Paul said quietly, "I'm leaving now so that you can be with Greg."

He stood up slowly and walked over to Greg, squeezing Greg's shoulder before leaving the room and shutting the door behind him.  
Greg forced down the lump in his throat, doing his best to keep the sound of tears out of his voice. "I'm...I'm right here, John."

John waited for Paul to leave before he shimmied to the edge. The thick carpet increased the friction and made the process slow. When he got to the edge he stuck his head out and looked to Greg. "Paul said some things. What do you say happened? If you say the same thing...I want to believe you...it's hurting me."

Greg closed his eyes and mentally pushed himself forward. "Sherlock was badly damaged from...from being raped. We were scared you had damage that healed wrong, since we never...we never anticipated that sort of trauma as well, John. I tried to talk to you about an exam. You panicked. I could not calm you down. You were so upset I was scared you were going to hurt yourself. I picked you up in your blanket and held your hand out so that Paul could give a sedative in your port. While you were sedated...I..." He cleared his throat, deciding to skip over attacking Miller, "you were given a quick medical exam. Then I sat with you until you woke up."

His voice was shaking slightly, right along with his hands, but for the most part he had managed calmly. He dragged a hand across his damp eyes and waited for the pleas not to hurt him, not to hold him down, the disappointment with his failure to protect.

Greg looked over at the still packed bag he'd put together in panic, waiting for the fallout.

John nodded along with the story and wiggled himself out a bit more. His hips were still under the bed, but he wasn't so scared of Greg. "It wasn't your fault, then," he whispered to Greg. "I can't...I _heard_ you tell him to do it, to...to..." John reached out his hands to Greg, beckoning him to come closer. "But I need you, I need you to stay, and you left, and it scared me, and I want you to stay."

Greg shifted slightly closer to John, not sure how to go about this. "I was scaring you, you were afraid of me so I left to make you feel safer." He was as close to John as he could get without touching him, leaving that choice to John if he wanted it. 

"I only told him...I only told him to give you medicine. I..." he cleared his throat, feeling his shoulders shaking despite himself. "I'm sorry."

John reached for Greg again and became upset when he was out of range. "I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to, I really didn't mean to. I thought Paul was going to...I thought he would touch me and..." Realizing that Greg wasn't going to reach for him, John shrank back under the bed. "Stay with me."

Greg shifted so that he was on his belly, just at the edge of the bed, parallel to John. "Hey," he whispered, losing a tear as it slid down the length of his nose. He stretched his hand out where John could take it if he wanted to. "I'm not mad at you, John. I'm not upset with you." He cleared his throat, trying to stay calm. "I know you were scared. I didn't know how to fix it. I messed up again, I'm so sorry." 

He kept himself right at the edge of the bed, his hand out, palm up, fingers shaking. "I'd...I'd kill anyone who tried...I would never let that happen, John. Not ever."  
John slowly crawled out from under the bed and rose to his feet. He took Greg's hand and his shoulders slumped down. "You're good to me, Greg." He crawled up on the bed and into a small ball. "I don't want to think you hurt me. I really don't want to think you helped Paul take me. I don't want to fear you, or anyone!" 

Tears came so easily to him now, but they stung the same each time. John's lower lip trembled and the abused, confused man tried to comfort himself by rocking back and forth.  
Greg sat down on the edge of the bed, internally twisting into knots. John had pulled away from him and curled in on himself, clearly not wanting Greg to touch him. "I don't want you to think I'd hurt you, either. I...I don't know what to do, John. I tried my best, and I've still...it didn't do any good. I love you, and I don't know how to prove that to you. I...I'll stay, or if you would feel safer without me then I'll go. I will do whatever you need, John. I'm sorry I don't know how to fix it. I didn't..I didn't help someone rape you." He stumbled over the words as his mouth filled with saliva and his stomach bucked on him again. It took all his willpower not to sick up, staring his failure right in the face. "I l-love you, John. I-" he cut himself off, refusing to allow the icy swell of panic to overwhelm him again.

John was in supreme conflict. He wished to be touched, held, comforted and loved, but he was still afraid that he would panic and drive Greg away. "I don't want to make you leave; I love you. I love you so much and I want you to stay with me."

He couldn't express another idea other than his need for Greg. "Please, please, come here." John reached for Greg and put a hand on his shoulder. "Please?"  
Greg slowly reached for John, cautious and ready to allow him to pull back at any moment, sliding his arms around him. He closed his eyes as he carefully drew John in close, hating that he was personally shaking so hard. "Please don't be afraid of me," he whispered, carefully arranging John in his arms, "I would never hurt you."  
John shivered with relief at the contact and uncurled his body. He twisted in Greg's arms and held him as close as he could. "Please, I'm just confused, it's not my fault. I love you. I love you."

Greg tipped his face down to the top of John's head, holding him tight now that it was clear that's what he wanted. "I know it's not your fault," he whispered, hating that John even felt the need to explain that. "I shouldn't have...I am sorry I...I..." he shook his head and gathered John in closer, struggling not to succumb to tears. He was so incredibly stressed, and walking on eggshells with such severe penalties for a misstep was grating him down. "I'm so scared that I'm making things worse for you. I just want to help. I'm so sorry I'm rubbish at this."

John wept openly in Greg's arms, so devastated and torn apart psychologically that he needed someone to hold him together physically. "Don't let the doctors take off my clothes anymore," he pleaded. "I don't...we can work on water, and I'll be able to bathe myself. I'll learn. I promise. Anything but them."  
Greg began to slowly rock John back and forth as he held him close, forcibly keeping his upper lip stiff. John was only going to see this as a punishment, and there was fuckall Greg could do about it. That truth bit into his heart like something wild and rabid as he whispered to John, "I promise. I promise, John. I promise." 

Paul stood out in the hallway, facing Mycroft, lingering to see if Greg and John were going to manage without screaming. "Greg is struggling," he said by way of addressing the entire situation with as few words as possible.

"I need to know if I'll have you for a while," John whispered. The rocking soothed him to his very core and he relaxed the tension he had been holding in his legs. "You'll stay with me, right? You'll stay with me? I need you not to leave. I'm my sorry I'm confused. Please don't leave." It was the same plea over and over, but in asking John hoped to persuade.  
Greg tightened his hold on John, keeping up with the rocking, splaying a hand over the back of John's scalp. He breathed in deep and let John's words settle over him like a balm, thawing some of the horrible worry. "I won't leave unless you ask me to, John. Not unless you ask me to." _Not until you don't need me. Not until you have Sherlock._  
John let his tension bleed from him at Greg's promise and his breathing began to slow back to it's normal rate. "I love you, Greg. I'm so sorry. I'll try to understand. I'll try not to panic. I... God, I'm trying so hard." He gave Greg an imploring look that prayed for him to acknowledge his effort. 

Mycroft listened carefully to the conversation and spoke to Paul. "I never expected him to stay this long. I miscalculated. I didn't take Sherlock's capture into account."  
Paul looked over to Mycroft and then back to the door. "He's in love with John. To some extent, at the least. He's put as much stock into John as John has to him. I'd be deeply worried for Greg were he not here with him."

Mycroft was well aware of Greg's love, and had decided that for the time being he was not to consider how it would affect Sherlock. John needed to be happy. "It's unlikely either will be able to live without the other, but some occasional time apart would be good for them both. Perhaps just a few minutes a day to let Greg breathe."  
Paul shook his head. "I don't think that's the case. I believe we will see John better once he becomes more autonomous. You saw him with Sherlock. That was...remarkable. He's still right there under the surface. I anticipate that John will likely cling to Greg, but Sherlock or no, I highly doubt he would carry on clinging to him."   
\---  
John let his tension bleed from him at Greg's promise and his breathing began to slow back to it's normal rate. "I love you, Greg. I'm so sorry. I'll try to understand. I'll try not to panic. I... God, I'm trying so hard." He gave Greg an imploring look that prayed for him to acknowledge his effort.   
Greg tucked John back into his arms and nodded against the side of John's head. "I know you are, I know. You are doing so much better than I ever would. You are remarkable, John, I am so...so amazed at how far you've come already." He bit down hard at the inside of his lip and focused on his breathing, determined to stay even and steady for him.  
"Okay....okay, Greg." John's nerves had been on edge for hours now, and he was more than ready to relax. The energy drained from him violently, like a damn broken wide, and he relaxed into Greg's arms. "Can we sleep? I need to sleep. I'm so tired." His panic about being raped had gone down, but he was still in no mood to be awake. "But no sedation. Just sleep. Normal sleep." He could easily wake up if someone tried to hurt him.

Greg eased them down, pulling blankets up around John's shoulders. Sherlock's music was still sliding gently through the air. Greg put himself on his back and rest John's head over his heart, fingertips sliding through John's hair. He was sick with nerves, though outwardly appeared well. "I've got you," he whispered again, without any hope that it would help John. Slowly he'd come to understand his position. He had John on a scrap of driftwood and was going to pedal like hell towards the shore until his heart gave out. He couldn't lift John up or fix him, but he was damned sure going to try and keep him from drowning until Sherlock could step in and build back the man John had been.

Were John a cat, he would have purred. The security was even sweeter from his recent escapades in terror, and while he still wasn't quite sure if he believed Greg and Paul's story, he was more than certain he needed Greg. "I'm going to do so much better," John muttered into Greg's chest as he drifted off into an emotionally exhausted sleep. 

-  
Mycroft leaned against the door. "Yes, it was remarkable, as was the effect it had on Sherlock. If John is able to live without Greg, I'll be pleased. But do you believe Greg will be able to live without John? Yes, we can transfer John's companionship to Sherlock, not that he'll cling to him, but will Greg be able to make it without John, if his purpose has been served?" Mycroft listened to the door carefully and was pleased to hear John wished to sleep.

Paul arched a brow at Mycroft. "Is that something you are concerned about, Mycroft? Please do not take that the wrong way, we are the men we are. I will do my best to keep an eye on Greg. He is much more likely to carry on if John is happy, if Sherlock is happy. Then he'd at least have a tangible success to observe, where, at the moment, it is clear that all he feels is desperate failure." 

"I am worried he puts his entire value in John's recovery," Mycroft stated simply. "Each time he makes a mistake he sounds so terribly broken, as if he has nothing left to live for. It worries me, but I suppose it could just be the general anxiety of this place."  
Greg remained awake for nearly an hour longer before finally calming down enough to drift down to sleep. He kept his fingers moving in John's hair, keeping watch, feeling his own heart racing despite the tranquil feel of the room. He shifted his hips so that he was not touching John below the waist, pushing the blankets down between them, tears sliding down his cheeks silently as he desperately tried to ensure that John wouldn't fear him when he woke. He wept for the futility of it all, the deep inadequacy of it. He wished Miller had taken him to task, longed for bruises that ached so he could focus on something besides the gouging pain of failure. 

While the men slept, Paul kept to the room, sitting just outside the door. He'd quite agreed with Mycroft's concerns, but knew there was little else for it. He'd explained to the elder Holmes that the only way to protect Greg from this encompassing investment in John would be to separate them. Even in that event, if Greg were banned from staying with John, he was unlikely to thrive. There was no real solution without hurting John and Sherlock. Greg would make it once the men had rejoined one another, or he would not.   
John dropped to sleep like a stone through thin air. He was exhausted both physically and mentally. His clothes had fibers from the rug stuck to them and a bit of dust in strips where he had brushed against the supports beneath his bed. His hair was sticking up at odd angles and his eyes had dark circles underneath them. Despite his haggard state, John slept soundly.


	2. Clockwork

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey all, we have been away quite some time. Life has been very hectic. Neither of us have time to clean up the chapters and edit, so instead we are going to publish as is. If anyone wants to volunteer to edit/beta for us, we are all ears. This is not abandoned.

It was cruel to think about, but Mycroft was well aware that his priority was Sherlock. For Sherlock to recover,John needed to recover. For John to recover, he needed Greg to be mentally sound. Mycroft cared about the men a small amount individually, but his drive to help Sherlock was the reason he was so involved. 

Sherlock had been awake for the better part of an hour. Miller sat at his side, quietly observing, waiting patiently for Mycroft to return. There was a swift alert on his mobile that Mycroft was returning, and so he stood and moved to stand just on the other side of the door where he could observe Sherlock, but speak with his brother in private. 

Mycroft arrived with the intention of seeing his brother, but stopped when he saw Miller out the door. "I hope you've something encouraging to say," he commented with a dejected sigh. "The other two are in an emotional crisis of sorts." 

"He's lucid," Miller said calmly. "Paul has asked that I come see him to discuss John's medications. Sherlock has just been medicated himself and is as comfortable as I can make him. We are going on sixty minutes now, and he's only experienced mild confusion. I've my assistant on hand if you need to leave. I will be reachable by phone." 

Mycroft thanked Miller and walked into Sherlock's room. He kept his expression, gait, and posture calm and controlled with hopes to show Sherlock that the present situation was nothing to fear. "Hello, 'Lock. How are you feeling? Any better?"

Sherlock slowly turned his eyes on his brother, sharp and aware as he'd ever been. He stared at him, taking in his brother's posture and the state of his suit, the sweep of his hair, the odd tension around his forehead. He looked away again, staring off at a random point across the room. "I am present," he said simply, making the statement with a slight punctuating nod.

"Fantastic. It's been a while since I talked to you. What do you remember?" Mycroft's voice was still calm, but became less guarded and more relaxed. "I've just come from John's room. He's been lucid most of the day. A bit sad, but lucid. He's recovering nicely and ahead of schedule." 

Sherlock cracked an empty laugh. "Schedule," he repeated looking down at his lap. "I remember...everything." He looked back to his brother, reading what he needed from him. Sherlock touched the pads of his thumb and forefinger together, processing the way the roll of tendons was trying to light up pain under the blanket of narcotics. His neck ached where it had been stitched together and he closed his eyes for a moment. "This room is hateful," he whispered. 

"Good, I'm glad," Mycroft responded and sat down in his chair. He didn't expect Sherlock to want him in bed next to him while he was lucid. "I'd like to make a plan for you. Is there anything else that you can tell me that helps?John helps, we've gathered that much, but is there anything else that you particularly like?"

"You're glad," Sherlock repeated, hurt by his brother's sudden cruelty. He slid his eyes over the walls he loathed and the clinical staleness that felt near identical to his former location. He closed his eyes and let the silence hang for a while. "You don't need a plan," Sherlock said quietly, blinking up at the ceiling. _Eighteen panels, no water damage, renovated within the last year._ "I'll heal, and then I will leave." He looked down at his fingers again, touching them together before looking away. 

"I'm glad you're mentally recovering. That is all I meant." Mycroft spoke as gently as he possibly could without sounding patronizing. "Hopefully you can leave the compound as soon as you are physically healed. I'll have Moran killed and you, John, and Greg can find a flat somewhere. I was thinking in the area. John does love London."

Sherlock's heart dropped out on him at the use of 'compound,' despite knowing that's where he was. From one to the other. He pinched his eyes closed, hands shaking in their restraints for a moment before he forcibly schooled himself back down. He made himself open his eyes, looking back at Mycroft. "John is to return to Baker Street. Th-That is where he belongs. He will have the b-best chance at recovery in his own home. I do trust y-you are aware to which position he has been listed in my will." He stared at his brother. "Which one broke today? Your t-trousers are bunched at the knee, you've been c-crouching. It was Greg, then. John would n-not let you so close." 

Mycroft had expected such grief from Sherlock and was as prepared to handle it as he possibly could be. "The stress has been eating at Greg for some time now. He hasn't been away from John very much, and was getting run down. He just needed some encouraging." He crossed his legs and folded his hands over his knee. "If John returns to Baker Street, it will be when you are also able to. His position in your will hardly matter. I believe his fate to be linked with yours."

"That stopped being a t-truth a long time ago," Sherlock returned flatly. "I shot James Moriarty in the face. It h-has been what? Ten days...two weeks s-since I was found...has your l-little comity not pulled your f-funding yet? Oh," he stared at Mycroft and then closed his eyes, shaking his head. "Th-That's why Moran is still free. H-How long do you anticipate the l-lie will stretch that he serves some sort of n-national threat?"

"For god's sake Sherlock," Mycroft exclaimed in a hushed tone. "Keep your voice down. I've cameras in here. Of course, they go directly to me, but honestly, I don't want that getting out. They haven't pulled my funding because I believe Moran is a threat. Not as much as Moriarty, he is rather directionless, but he's still dangerous. I'm...delaying action until I can make a plan to kill him. That is all." He leaned back in his chair and prayed Sherlock would cooperate. "Besides, this facility has helped John. He wouldn't do as well without it."

Sherlock leveled his eyes at his brother and spoke in the same hushed tone, shifting slightly forward, the restraints at his wrists softly chiming against the framework of the bed where they were tethered. "John will do fine wherever it is he can be safe and be with G-Greg Lestrade." 

He looked away then, staring at the floor. "I believed I w-would die there. You've n-no need for plans, b-brother. I succeeded in what I s-set out to do." 

Mycroft's heart was aching in a painful, squeezing way that he was so very accustomed to. He kept himself distant from everyone, and even from Sherlock, but it seemed incredibly difficult to keep his baby brother outside his walls. "I'm planning anyway. You'll pull out of this because John Watson wants you to, and you love him."

Sherlock gave his brother a moment before speaking quietly, leveling without barbs or wit at his brother and breaking their unspoken agreement to keep it all unspoken. "To what end, My," he asked quietly, staring at his brother. "I know th-that you see me as I am h-here and now. I'll n-not be able to work. I...I am...l-look at me," his voice shook as tears burned along his eyes, whispering around the tightness in his throat. "E-Every time John looks at me, this is what he'll see. He'll know e-every method that was used. He'll r-remember every pain of it. All wh-while I what? Languish in my chair, vitriolic and loathsome as ever, m-making the one man alive who c-could possibly love me without sharing the blood in my veins as m-miserable as possible? I'll g-go mad w-without the work...without J-John." 

"You'll not be without him," Mycroft responded softly. "John Watson will remain a part of your life for as long as you are living to be part of his. I know...I know this hurts. I can't pretend that I understand what you are going to, but I can offer an outside view. John is currently living because you and Greg need him. I believe that if either of you are removed from his life, it would set him back if not kill him." 

Sherlock looked down at his lap and then spoke roughly. "M-Moran...gave me c-colorful stories about th-things he did to John. M-My voice and Moran's body." He slowly looked up to Mycroft, breathing the question. "W-Was he t-telling me truths, My? Did he...did he?" Sherlock's breathing had crept up to something overly swift and shallow, his heart rate swiftly increasing at the memory of being so handled. 

Mycroft avoided speaking of any comparative damage that would remind Sherlock of his own pain and exam, but it had been obvious that John was abused. "He...I wouldn't believe everything Moran said. He was obviously trying to get a reaction out of you. There was evidence that John was sexually abused, but not severely." There had been scarring, which would have been incredibly painful, but it wasn't nearly as bad as Sherlock's. Nonetheless, it had happened, and Mycroft was reminded that he had tapes to watch. "Whatever Moran told you was likely a severe exaggeration meant to offend and upset you."

_John was better at this than you, Sherlock. Disappointing._

Sherlock closed his eyes and absently reached for his forehead, intent on dragging his hand across his eyes before the sweat rolled into them. When his wrist was caught, he exhaled loudly, the air shaking out of his lungs. Slowly the color drained from his face and he looked back to his brother. He held Mycroft's eye for just a moment before looking sharply away, having forgotten that he'd already confirmed the worst to his sibling. "I m-m-may require...there...m-may be need of a doctor to..." he shook his head, unable to ask for an exam as his heart rate went through the roof. 

"I t-tried to stop him from h-hurting John. I n-never could make him s-stop." 

"Nothing you did while with Moran affected John at all. You couldn't have stopped his pain, because he was with me." Mycroft was growing worried about Sherlock and wished to unclasp his wrists. He was still wary, however, due to the self-inflicted slit in Sherlock's throat. "If you wish to have an exam, that can be arranged," Mycroft said gently. "I can have the doctors I trust perform it, if you are willing."

Sherlock snapped his eyes up to his brother and shook his head, "N-No I do not _wish_ to have-" he forced himself to breathe, keeping his focus on Mycroft with his fist balled up tight, fear slithering around his mind and raising the hairs on the back of his neck. "I...I...s-simply...I...th-there is p-pain and..." he felt the sweat begin to roll down the sides of his face and he shifted, dragging his temples over each shoulder, gritting his teeth at the pain of the movement. 

"I d-don't _wish_ for th-them to-" he closed his eyes and tipped his chin down to his chest, trying to calm himself down. "M-My...I n-n-need help staying present r-right now. Help m-me stay here." 

The hesitation left him and Mycroft removed the restraint on Sherlock's good arm. "Do you remember the time that you came to Buckingham Palace without pants on? Without anything but a sheet? God, they were furious. You also stole an ashtray, though I've no idea what you did with it." Mycroft tried to keep Sherlock thinking about things that had nothing to do with his capture and perhaps brought up a good memory.

Sherlock drew his hand in as fast as possible, his palm pressed over the wound at his neck, closing his eyes as he began to shake. "N-Nicked it f-for John. He's t-too domesticated to s-steal from the Q-Queen," he recounted, his breathing rough and wheezing as he leaned towards his brother, crying out sharply as he disturbed sutures in delicate areas. He grit his teeth and carried on. "I b-believed Harry was your p-partner. L-Looked a good fit, he's ap-proper height for you." 

He choked on a sob as Moran's boot clamped down over his neck, making him try to reach with the other hand to protect himself. "Not there. I'm n-not there. I'm not...it's n-not h-happening," he repeated to himself under his breath, trying to bend his legs up defensively. 

"Harry? Dear God, no. Goldfish, brother. All goldfish. I'm not fond of keeping pets, either. If I found someone who could keep up with me intellectually, I'd hardly spoil it with romance." Mycroft leaned in as Sherlock did and put his hand gently on his shoulder. "You are with me, Sherlock. Not with Moran. Do you remember where you are? Say it out loud if you can. Maximum security. Run by Mycroft. Moran can't get in."

Sherlock forced himself to keep breathing, repeating the words under his breath. "Th-this fear," he tried to explain after he'd reminded himself where he was..."i-it's preternatural. I c-cannot...th-this is..." he shivered hard and squeezed at the wound at his neck. "H-how can you stand to l-look at me now? H-How...wh-what's to come of me?" God, but he felt young and unstable, lost and drifting where the monsters lurked just under the water.

Mycroft put stood beside Sherlock's bed now, closer than he had been before, and put both his hands on Sherlock's shoulders. "I understand. The fear will pass, Sherlock. The fear will pass. Could you tell me about your first case with John? Were you sure that the poison wasn't in the pill you were about to take?"

"Th-They were the s-same," Sherlock whispered, his teeth starting to chatter. He was making small, audible gasps at the end of each inhalation, struggling now to more air. "H-He was on b-blood thinners wh-which would r-render the toxin inert to h-himself." He was clutching hard enough to bruise his neck, wanting to rip into the stitches and make the pain stop. "M-Moran will b-be here ss-s-so-soon you should g-gg-go, he will h-hurt you." 

"That is very good of you to figure out. I suppose, then, that you had no intention of _actually_ taking the pill then, did you?" Mycroft searched for something to distract Sherlock with. "Moran isn't coming, Sherlock. You've no need to worry about that. I came across a murder recently that might be of interest. The man was covered in blood, stomach ruptured, but with no signs of toxins, struggle, or any external injuries. Ideas?"

"H-His blood?" Sherlock asked, pinching his eyes closed tight, "PPossible gastrointestinal p-perforation in-including the esophagus c-c-causing massive h-hemorrhaging prior t-t-to death." He felt a tear slide down his face, dripping down off his nose as he touched his chin to his chest, shoulders heaving with the effort to breathe, ignoring his brother's question regarding his intent with the pill. 

"C-Christ I h-h-h-hate this r-room. I k-keep hearing John, e-expecting his f-f-face on the wall," another sob pushed it's way up forcibly out of his throat and he shook his head. "Y-you won't m-m-m-make me watch John. You won't...won't...th-there won't be f-f-fire or-" he whimpered pathetically as his eyes shot open, looking up to the ceiling. Eighteen, not twelve. No water spot. Eighteen, not twelve. No wa-

_Good morning, sunshine! Are you ready to tell me what you did to poor John Watson?_

"N-NO," he growled, shaking his head and looking back down to the corner where he'd heard the voice. "I'm...I'm n-n-not there. I'm n-not there." 

"I'll have the wall covered. You don't have to watch John. Not ever. John is safe, and nobody is going to hurt you. You are in a secure facility with Mycroft Holmes. I am keeping you safe. My is here. I won't make you watch John, and Moran is gone. I will murder him if he comes in." Mycroft remembered that John seemed to respond well to Greg's protective rage, so long as he didn't think it was directed at himself. "I will keep you safe. What is the twelfth number of the Fibonacci sequence divided by Phi?" 

"F-Five, six, f-four, s-s-s-six...b-behind" his lips moved as he was counting, shaking his head as he attempted the math, Moran's breath fogging in around the simplistic perfection of the numbers, "f-f-f-five behind the decimal..n-no f-f-four I c-can't," he gagged as the smell assaulted him as sure as though Moran were there. "Bourbon," he whispered, the drink forever lost to him now. "My...M-My h-h-help me." 

"It's alright, Sherlock," Mycroft was amazed he was still lucid and trying so hard. "It's alright. I'm here. I'll get the room to look a bit nicer." Curtains, a lamp or two, perhaps a dresser -no, he might fear what was in it- a bedside table with some books, some pictures that would be nice for Sherlock to look at, perhaps some music or dimmed lights. "I'm here. It's alright." Mycroft wrapped his arms around Sherlock and held him gently. 

Sherlock leaned as much as his body and the restraint would allow, his face to his brother, quietly crying as he struggled to stay where he was. "I-It's the pain, I...i-i-t makes it ch-ch-challenging to...oh g-g-god I'm scared, My, I'm s-scared. Oh g--god I know you w-w-won't let...I _know_ I j-just-"

_Don't pass out._

Sherlock shouted, a clipped, startled sound as adrenaline spiked across his chest and he jumped hard, swearing he could feel Moran's breath on his ear. He reached up and covered the bruised shell defensively, his breathing reflecting his panic. "I-I'm a-afraid," he sobbed, scrambling to press his face to Mycroft's neck. 

Mycroft cradled Sherlock to his chest and ran his fingers back through the man's hair repeatedly. He could see how this would eventually file someone's nerves down to sensitive buds, and why Greg had experienced a meltdown. 

“'Lock, listen to me. I am here for you. It is alright to be afraid, and I am going to keep you safe." He put his hand over Sherlock's ear and put his other arm protectively over his shoulders. 

"He can't get to you when you are with me."

Sherlock's voice was trembling French against his brother's neck. "One...o-one, t-t-two three, f-f-f-five eight tw-twel-no! No th-thriteen, M-MY h-he's...I d-don't w-w-want..." Sherlock shivered hard, leaning in hard enough to pull at his wounds, to torque himself painfully just to get closer, "tw-eny'o-one, th-thirty four...f-f-f-fty...fi-fity..." he began to sob like a child, shaking his head as his heart rate sored. "F-FIVE, e-eighty n-nn-n-nn-n-nin-n-ne." 

_Have you ever wondered what the inside of your wrist looks like, Sherlock?_

He screamed, gagging and nearly blacking out, "P-Please!" 

Mycroft held Sherlock as tight as he believed he could without causing pain and gave him a light shake. "It's ALRIGHT. Moran is gone. GONE. I'll kill him if he comes near you. I'll do it myself, too. He can't come near you. You are safe. You are in a bed, with My, in a safe place." 

Mycroft was hesitant to bring Miller in for medicine, as the sight of the doctor might make Sherlock come undone. He texted Paul instead. 

_Sherlock is very close to a meltdown. To give him more medication or sedation would require bringing a doctor in._

Sherlock struggled to hear his brother over the roar of imagery, grabbing hold to his brother's words as though they were slicked with oil, even a tight grip slipping despite his efforts. His brother had him, his brother had him and he had to be safe. There was no viable alternative. He had to be safe and he was safe and-

He pulled back from the arms around him as he was shaken, staring at him before looking around the room. His eyes locked to the massive white wall directly in front of him and he shook his head as tears slid down his face. Slowly his eyes went wide as his mind supplied the video. 

"J-John! JOHN!" 

Down the hall, Miller got up from the table where he and Paul were meeting, heading in Sherlock's direction as Paul responded. 

_Miller is on his way, Sherlock was calm with him earlier._

"John is safe!" Mycroft called loudly and kissed the top of Sherlock's head. 

"I am Mycroft! I am your brother! I love you and you are my little 'Lock. Remember that? Remember when we were children, how awful everyone was to us?"

Mycroft had quickly learned how to blend in, though it was clear he was above the rest, but he didn't observe such traits in Sherlock. 

"I'm keeping you safe. You are safe with Mycroft!"

Miller came in quietly as Sherlock sagged against his brother, his breathing wild and highly audible, shattering in and out of his lungs. He groaned and began to whisper, desperate promises and brittle pleas. 

Miller held up a sedative without speaking, tapping the bottle and looking to Mycroft in question. 

 

Mycroft nodded and gently shifted Sherlock. "It's alright, it's alright. I'm here. It's My. My is here. I'm going to keep you safe." 

Mycroft now keenly wished to go back to the mental hospital and make Sherlock's rescue more important than John's. Or, at the very least, aggressively pursued despite the gun to Sherlock's head. 

Miller deftly filled the syringe and moved to Sherlock's side, his steps masked by Sherlock's panicked breathing. He slid the needle into the line far away from Sherlock's skin, watching as the tension instantly began to bleed out of Sherlock's muscles. Sherlock began to sag against his brother, his breathing starting to slow and, after a full minute, his words began to slur. 

"I...I...always c-can hear him. M-Moran is...and then I..." hazy images of John's mutilated body as he screamed mixed with the smudged, rusted blood dried into the concrete where he focused when his body was no longer his own and Moran was breathing down the back of his neck. "I'd n-never...n-n-never before...w-why do people do th-that on p-purpose...th-the p-pain is in-indescribable I-" he choked and his stomach twisted, gagging him. He'd been able to mentally brace other forms of pain, but the personal invasions were overwhelming and inescapable

"I suppose lovers are a bit gentler, Sherlock. It'll never happen again. Not ever again. You are safe from that. Nobody will ever touch you again." Mycroft believed that with every ounce of his being. Sherlock would be under constant surveillance. 

"The pain will go away, and I'll be here to keep you safe." Mycroft held Sherlock's head to his chest just a bit tighter. "Nobody will ever be able to hurt you while I am here."

Sherlock's hand dropped away from his neck despite his nearly overwhelming want to hold it there. He whimpered softly as darkness began to envelope him, confused, not yet having seen Miller. "My," he whispered, clearly afraid, "My I c-can't..."

_Don't pass out Sherlock, you might wake up without your kneecap._

Sherlock jerked hard in a panicked effort to keep himself awake. "N-No, please no," he breathed before turning his focus to the rest of the room, catching sight of Miller and suddenly screaming. He managed to shout for a few seconds before the sedative reached up and pulled him under, leaving him slack and limp against the bedding. 

Mycroft held Sherlock as he the strength bled out of him and tried not to imagine him dying in his arms. Would it feel the same? Likely. "It's alright, Sherlock. Nobody is going to hurt you. Nobody will hurt you." 

Mycroft soothed him as he dropped off to sleep and for several minutes after. 

Dr. Miller moved a bit closer to the bed, looking down at Sherlock before speaking softly. "He will be due for a second wave of surgery soon, two, maybe three days. Need to see how the patella is healing, if at all, and pin it in a different position. We will of course address the arm and well, the lot of it, really. At that time, we will be able to better repair the damage done during the more...personal assaults.." 

He looked over at Sherlock's monitors and leaned in, resetting an alarm Sherlock had tripped in his panic. "I've altered John’s medication and put Lestrade on a daily anti-anxiety to keep him steady while he is here."

Mycroft kept hold of Sherlock. He could easily get to Moran in a week. He could have the man killed and his body burned if he wanted. And oh, he did want it. But that would be counterproductive to his current goal of recovering Sherlock. 

"He'll have pain again. It'll scare him," Mycroft wasn't quite paying attention to what he said; rather he considered things he could do to help Sherlock. 

Miller dragged a chair over when it was clear that Mycroft was staying put. "He will have pain, though I've been consulting with the surgical team. We can give him an epidural for a few days, numb him below the ribs. It's a risk, but nothing so serious as his thrashing about. He will be less accessible when he recovers from this round. Ortho will be at his hands now that some of the soft, connective tissue is healed enough to support the bones. The few breaks that are in the first stages of healing will be re-broken and set. The swelling was too massive for us to attempt that before. His hand will be suspended by the fingers, at least there on the left." He gestured to the horrifically shattered arm. "We will close the open wound, as it no longer needs space to swell. That will allow for a proper plaster and will be more comfortable." 

Sherlock suddenly jerked hard in his sleep, a tear slipping down the side of his face as his heart rate shot up for a moment, only to settle seconds later. "He does battle so with the sedatives." 

"If he's like John, he'll always fight them. He seemed to think he would be punished for sleeping when he first arrived." Mycroft could feel Sherlock's pulse in wrist when his fingers brushed over it and he marveled at how a body, any organism at all, could take such a beating and continue to live. 

"The gentler you can be with him, the better. I would prefer he is as mobile as possible. He'll kill himself if he can't stay active."

Miller shook his head. "Unfortunately, it's highly unlikely he will be anywhere close to attempting his feet for more than a month, likely two or three, to be completely honest. The seven days following the next round in theatre will have him all but immobilized. There is massive damage to his bone structure, and he is, quite frankly, in extreme danger of losing function in both of his legs. We are more optimistic with the left, a severed Achilles is easier to repair than the damage to the patella. The long standing infections have wreaked havoc on his ability to heal." 

Mycroft's legs twitched in sympathy and he activated his muscles to protect the knee. "I can not imagine the pain he went through. It would be enough to make a lesser man go insane. If there is anything you can do to get his hands and legs in working order, I'll owe you a debt I could never hope to repay."

Miller nodded, keeping his eyes to Mycroft for a moment. "He has the best team available. We are honestly doing everything that can be done. I encourage you to consult with Paul before Sherlock undergoes the second surgery, I believe he will be far more helpful to you than I in regards to your brother's mental well being. I will do what I can for his pain. Unfortunately these injuries are extensive, and the clinging pneumonia does not help matters." 

"I'll consult him. He was lucid today, but it fell apart as he spoke. He tried so very hard, though, which is encouraging. It took John weeks upon weeks to understand that he was safe. That Sherlock is having flashes of it now is encouraging." Mycroft noted the faint purplish hue around Sherlock's eyes and the yellow-green splotches on his cheeks, head and neck. "He's endured so much."

Miller nodded, "He was lucid with me the entire hour he was awake while you were tending to other matters. No fear, sitting quietly for the most part. He spoke for a few minutes, in fact. Very concerned for you. Did not ask after John." 

The doctor stood up then, going to a drawer and prepping a new bag of fluids to hang for Sherlock while he was down. "He is doing remarkably well, I do agree." 

"Yes, well, he's stubborn. He might pull out of this from sheer will. Unfortunately, he had expressed very lucidly and very clearly that he has no intention of living very long." Mycroft was speaking as though at a meeting, very businesslike and disconnected. There was a small hint of exhaustion in his voice, as he had been staying up in order to tend to his other business. 

"That's hardly surprising," Miller responded gently, "a highly typical coping mechanism when faced with...incredible circumstances. I know he made a rather serious attempt, but he is in the thick of it at the moment. When he has more distance, I am hopeful it will turn about." 

Miller walked to the edge of the room and lowered the lights drastically, hopeful that Mycroft would stay as he was and sleep, not daring to verbally offer the suggestion. If Mycroft collapsed, they would all struggle to help Sherlock. 

Mycroft stayed with Sherlock, though he didn't sleep. Contingencies for every possible situation filed through his mind like a never ending line of soldiers, each grim and depressed. 

He continued to comfort Sherlock occasionally with soft words and promises of a bright, safe future.

 

\---

Paul checked his watch, pacing outside the door to John's room. He had yet to discuss with Greg the daily medication they wanted him on, and he did not particularly anticipate it going well. 

Greg woke several hours later, head aching and wary of how John would be when he finally got up. He opened his eyes to early morning light, finding Paul pushing medication into John's drip line. He arched a brow in question, shifting John in his arms and holding him tight.

"Miller and I have come up with, what we think will be, a very motivating mix of drugs. Some from the Americans, they are testing on their own soldiers. He's going to wake up starving and incredibly thirsty. I'm giving him anxiety meds as well."

Greg frowned at him, "Really should have asked first, Paul."

 

John was woken from rather unpleasant dreams by the sound of Greg and Paul speaking. He kept his eyes closed but slowly, quietly, moved one arm down to check the knot on his sweatpants. He could feel the little loop still trapped in the center of the knot. It would have been dislodged if they had stripped him.

He was a bit sore from struggling the day before and could feel a rug burn on his right elbow where he had used it to pull himself under the bed, and his mouth and throat were dry. John shifted and licked his lips, though he kept his eyes closed. 

Greg adjusted his hold on John, snuggling him in closer and whispering softly to him, "It's morning, Paul was just talking to me about meds. He's leaving now. "

Paul tapped a bottle of meds on the night table. "These are yours, take them, Greg," before walking back out and leaving the men alone.

Greg inhaled deeply before speaking. "Are...are you...how are you feeling?"

John slowly curled his knees up to his chest. If he was asleep, it wouldn't be fun for Moran to tease him. The desire to stay still, to make himself boring in hopes that his tormentors would leave him alone, was oddly strong today. 

"I'm at a secure facility." He spoke quietly. "And-And M-Moriarty isn't here... Not going...Greg?" John opened his eyes and saw his protection in bed with him, and while it helped, he still shrank down into the blankets. 

Greg watched as John shrank away from him, his chest suddenly constricting as panic whispered along his spine. "John," he whispered, reaching out for him, "you are safe. No Moriarty, no Moran. Safe."

John froze like prey spotted by a predator and attempted to camouflage himself into the blankets. 

_Come now, John. I know you're awake. You know, Moran asked about you. I told him you'd been good, and he couldn't come visit. Are you going to be good today too?_

John shook gave a small nod to answer the voice in his head. 

Greg took the nod as an invitation and wrapped his arm around John, pulling him in close to his chest. "John," he repeated, wary but remembering that yesterday all John had wanted was for Greg to pull him close. "I've got you,John, I've got you."

John let out a small whimper. Consciously he was aware that Greg was holding him, that he was in a safe place, but emotionally he was distraught and riddled with images of torment. "I _hear_ him," John exclaimed through gritted teeth and gripped his hands in his hair. 

The threats had transitioned from Moran to Sherlock after a while, and while he was blindfolded they became one and the same. 

_Are you going to be good today? Are you going to follow instructions? If you're cooperative, I'll do your whipping instead of Sherlock. He's too rough with you. You should listen to me. It keeps you safe._

Greg was exceedingly glad that John had already been given a decent anxiety medication as he sat up with John still in his arms. He reached up and disconnected the slow dripping feed and the saline and wrapped John up in his arms, holding him in his lap. 

"What's he saying, John?" He tried, aware that John was at least aware of Greg's presence. 

"He's going to let Sherlock do the whipping," John whispered and exhaled forcefully. His hand flew over his stomach and his brow knitted together. Hunger hadn't touched him in months, not truly. His body was perfectly content to work with the calories given with his tube, which was excess in comparison to what he had been given with Moriarty. "H-He said I should-"

_Don't fall asleep, John. I know you're tired, but you have to obey me. If you don't obey me, I'll bring Sherlock in._

"John," Greg said quietly, tugging lightly at John's hand, "are you aware that Moriarty is not here? We are not with them, do you remember? They are not going to hurt you. Can you tell me where you are?" He held tight to John, reaching back with one hand to pull the blinds over the window wide open, hoping the sunlight would help settle John down. 

John battled with the conflicting voices in his mind. If he focused on Greg's voice the others receded, but only a small amount. He didn't feel too panicky, but the threat of losing control was still there. "S-safe building and...Greg...and-"

John was distracted from his throughs by his own thirst, and his eyes grew wide.

_I told you not to drink that water. I gave you a direct order. Do you remember who comes for you when you're disobedient?_

Greg nodded, shifting John in his arms. "John, look outside, it's really nice out. Sunny. Do you want to go to your tree? We can bundle up, go out there, have a bit of ice and watch the clouds?" Perhaps if John had some of the things he liked, he'd not be so afraid. "John? Let's go outside. You like it outside."

John looked to his port to be sure it was still in working order. He shouldn't be thirsty. Thirsty was bad. Everything associated with water stressed him so terribly, that even the fact that he needed water was enough to evoke painful memories. 

_This is your fault. Don't hold your breath. You wanted water, this is how you'll get water._

John cried out and clamped his hand over his mouth. "I don't want any water."

Greg was going to throttle Paul. He shook his head, very gently resting his hand over John's. "You don't have to have water," he said as calmly as he could, "You don't have to have any water, John. You are safe, no one is going to hurt you." 

He held his hand over John's over John's mouth and began to slowly rock him from side to side, having John balled up in his lap. "No one is going to hurt you. No one. They'd have to get through me. I've got you."

John wrapped his arms around his stomach and kept one hand over his nose. "I don't want water. I don't. No. I haven't had any, I swear. I swear. Swear." John took panicked, deep drags of air and shook his head. 

"I said NO! I'm not having water. I didn't have any water." John licked his dry lips and felt the gnawing in his stomach increase. God, he couldn't imagine food. 

There were few tastes John could still recall. Blood, sweat, bile, the occasional rag in his mouth were very familiar to him. Recently he had experienced as if for the first time the taste of orange juice and applesauce, but the other, less pleasant tastes were overbearing. He'd forgotten the taste of strawberries, chocolate and hot tea. 

He'd been given bread, mainly. Bread and the occasional bit of real food leftover from one of his men's meals. But it was difficult for him to imagine what it would feel like to bite into an apple, or drink a cup of hot tea. 

"I need the tube, I can't-not supposed to--"

"John," Greg called out to him, "John, you are supposed to get better. That's what you are supposed to do. You are supposed to try water and food as you can. No one will punish you for eating or drinking," Oh and it was a risk to say such things to John, but if they were going down this road then down the road they would go. 

"You've never been punished here. You have ice and the juice, applesauce, that's all a good thing, John, all good."

John's lips were pressed in a thin line and he made a valiant effort to understand the words Greg was saying. Even when he understood that he wouldn't be punished directly for drinking, John was still afraid of his own reaction. Thus, when Moriarty's soft voice echoed in his mind and visions wet rags played out, John was terrified.

"Something else," he pleaded, "Something else. Not this. Let's say nice things and not this."

John had not talked about water in a very long time. Greg knew he was thirsty, as Paul had given him something to induce the feeling. Greg was less than thrilled with it, but they had to work on it sometime, and John's veins were wearing out. 

"John, love," he whispered, leaning down and cuddling John to his chest, "you are an amazing, wonderful man. I will protect you as long as I'm breathing. I know you are thirsty, I want you to have the ice with a bit of water in it. Please. For me."

John drank in the affection like a man starving and nuzzled down onto Greg's chest. "I don't- I can't...not supposed to..." Generally, when John wasn't thirsty, he could take the ice as simply doing something Greg said to. Now that he was thirsty, however, it was much more similar to the times when he had broken down and taken the bait, the seemingly innocent bottle of water left for him. 

Greg shook his head against John's neck, speaking softly to him. "Remember John? We are listening to Greg now, right? You are listening to me, and I'm taking care of us. You are thirsty, water will feel so good. Clean, clear water that you hold and you drink. I know you are scared, but you're the bravest man I know. Please do this for me, John. I know you can do this." 

"M-Moriarty doesn't t-tell me what I'm to do," John repeated to himself. "Greg t-tells me what to do, and I do it, and he keeps me safe."

John took several more minutes to cling to Greg. "I'll d-do it b-but you've got to promise me this isn't a trick. You aren't tricking me."

"I promise, John. This is no trick. Just going to have one of the men bring in a glass of cold water and a straw." He nuzzled against the side of John's neck, not letting him go enough to text, simply calling and swiftly requesting someone bring in water. He wrapped John back up tight, lifting one of his own knees to make a sort of protective barrier for John to hide behind, safely caged in Greg's lap. 

Not a minute later, the door opened and a small woman came in carrying a clear glass of water and ice, a fresh straw hanging over the lid. Greg reached out and took it from her, asking her to turn on the music before she left. 

"Greg has you. We are listening to Greg today, not that other voice. Just mine, just right here. Try the water, John. You are safe."

John flinched hard when Greg called for water and shook his head. "I-I change my mind, I-I can't do this. I-" He his behind Greg and tried to focus on the man's voice. 

"Listening to Greg, not M-M-Moriafty. G-Greg is good to me." He eyed the water suspiciously and took it in his hand as if it were a venomous snake. At an arm's length he held it and the condensation wet the inside of his hand. "Greg, hurts."

Greg wrapped one hand around John's wrist just at the water glass, the other helping to support the actual vessel least John drop it in fear and scare himself worse. "John, your mind hurts. The pain is in your mind. Look at me, look me right in the eye, John. Watch me." 

He did not press John to move, only sat with him in an effort to encourage. "You are a strong man. You are safe. I am here. I will protect you," over and over again, "John keep looking right at me, nowhere else."

John continued to whimper as he brought the glass closer. With eyes locked on Greg he brought the glass to about where a normal, non-traumatized man might hold it. "H-H-Hurts. Hurting me. It's hurting me." His hand shook and he felt the condensation running down the sides. 

_Go on, drink up. You know what'll happen, but aren't you thirsty? Won't it be worth it?_

Greg kept looking right at John. "Use other words, love. It's not hurting you. It's cool water, and it will feel amazing on your throat. When you want to take a breath, you just stop taking a drink. Use other words, it's not hurting you." 

John let out a choked sob and looked at Greg as a child looks at a mother when being punished. "Please? I don't....I don't want this..." He turned back to the water and brought it a bit closer to his mouth. With his other, more stable hand, he pulled the straw up an put it between his lips. 

Tears flowed down his face freely and he whimpered into the straw. "Please?"

Greg's expression softened to complete empathy. "I love you, John. I don't want you to feel thirsty. I promise you nothing bad is going to happen. I promise you." 

He leaned in and tipped his forehead to John's, sliding one hand up to cup the side of John's face as the other carried on bracing the cup so that John could not drop it on himself. "I'm right here. I love you."

John was shivering from head to toe. Moriarty's voice drowned out his own thoughts and he crushed the straw between his teeth. "L-L-Love y-y-y-you t-to-" If Greg loved him, then he wouldn't be making him do something that hurt. This must be for a good reason, then. 

_Oh, John! You weren't supposed to drink. I specifically told you not to. Sherlock will not be pleased. You're going to be beaten terribly for diso- ___

___**No**. Greg loves me. Greg loves me._ _ _

__John drew the water up through the straw and his entire body tensed when it hit his tongue._ _

__Greg carried on talking to him, calm and steady, their foreheads together. "I'm so proud of you. I'm right here. You are safe. This is okay. This is okay, John. Drinking is good, and I'm so proud of you. I love you, you're safe," on and on, holding tight to John and the glass, his own heart racing, praying that the water would be physically soothing to the man._ _

__John gagged when he’d taken in little more than a teaspoon, reflexively coughing the small amount out onto the bedsheets._ _

__"SORRY!" He exclaimed and took the straw in his mouth again. "L-L-L-Lo-ove y-y-" he couldn't finish the sentence and chewed on the straw. With his eyes squeezed shut and one hand over his nose, he sucked the water up once more and held it in his mouth. For a moment, he panicked. If he inhaled through his mouth, he'd inhale water. If he exhaled, he would risk disappointing Greg. It was only when he relinquished his hand over his nose that he was able to take deep breathes in. When he finally swallowed the water he release the glass and wiped his wet hand off onto the bedsheets. "H-H-Hurt-ts, G-Greg,"_ _

__Greg held John close and took the glass away, setting it on the night table. He pushed his back to the headboard and bundled John up tight in his arms, rocking him more swiftly than before, nuzzling his face to the top of John's head._ _

__"You are safe. Breathe. I know that was so hard. I know that was so, so hard. You are amazing. I'm so proud of you. You've okay."_ _

__He pressed a hand over John's heart and held him tight, trying to slow him back down._ _

__John shivered against Greg's chest and lamented his own inadequecy. "I-I-I can't even d-d-d-drink w-w-water!" He pressed his face into the side of Greg's shoulder. "I-I-I'm r-ruined, and-and-and broken and I-I-"_ _

__"Hush," Greg said softly, shaking his head and gathering John as close as he could, rocking him, "you are amazing, and strong, and you just took a massive step. You are my John, and I love you. How does your mouth feel? Any better? I know your mind hurts, but your throat, your mouth? How are they?_ _

__He moved his tongue around in his mouth and tested the feeling. John ran his tongue over his lips and swallowed to test his throat. They felt a small amount better, but he was still quite thirsty._ _

__"H-H-Hurts m-me t-t-to d-drink," he lamented and held his hand over his mouth. "Hurting me, G-Greg. H-Hurting me."_ _

__Greg shook his head. "No John. I'm not hurting you. Use another word, don't tell me 'hurt.' There is nothing hurting you right now, love, nothing. Talk to me. Tell me what's going on. I love you, you are safe."_ _

__"M-M-M scared," John cried and held both hands over his mouth. His voice was muffled but it was clear he was beginning to hyperventilate. "C-C-Can-n't h-h-h-ha-a-ave w-wa-wa-" He grit his teeth to guard against screaming._ _

__Greg shifted so that John could look out the window. "Greg has you. You are with Greg. No one hurts you when you are with Greg. I want you to drink this water, and I am keeping you safe. You can have water, John. Tell me you can have the water."_ _

__"I-I-I c-can have w-water, I-" John grabbed Greg's shirt and shook. "I can't, Greg, c-can't," He looked over at the terribly normal, nonthreatening glass of water and whimpered. "I-I'll d-do it i-if y-you want-"_ _

__"Yeah, John, I really do want," he said softly, reaching back for the glass, determined to show John to the other side of this. "You can. You are listening to me now, not those horrible men in your head. You listen to me. I am more important than them, let me have the floor, John. I love you, and you love me, and you _can_." _ _

__He brought the water to John once again, holding it at a distance to where John could either take the glass, or just lean in and take the straw. "There will be no pain. No pain, John. It will take the thirst away, that's all. You are safe."_ _

__John reached forward and took the straw. It was the farthest it could be out of the water while still enabling him to drink. "I-I-I'm hurting, I'm s-scared, I d-don't want this I-I-I'm I-"_ _

___Aren't you thirsty? Go ahead, drink._ _ _

__John cried out, but kept the straw in his hand. "H-He s-said I could drink, then hurt me. He always told me I could, then I did, then he-he-he-" The face that the two voices, Greg and Moriarty, were both saying the same thing was utterly confusing to him. He wanted to listen to Greg and ignore Moriarty, but when they said the same thing he was at a complete loss for what to do._ _

__He decided to listen to Greg, but it was still difficult for him to pull more water into his mouth. He swallowed quickly this time and gasped._ _

__Greg smoothed his palm over John's hair, nodding to him. "You are brilliant, just brilliant. Keep going, John. You're okay. Keep going. Little bit more and then we can go to the tree? We can play cards out at the tree. It will be wonderful, warm in our coats, sitting outside under the sun. It's sunny, perfect day for it. You're doing so well."_ _

__"P-Please, n-no more," John implored in the same tone that he had used on Moriarty before his ability to speak had been ripped away. "I-I can't. Can't." It was only a few more moments before he had the straw back between his lips and was trying once again._ _

__Greg kept his focus intently on John. "You can, I promise you can. Just a bit more. It has to feel good, John. Just let it feel okay. Look at me, I have you. Let yourself drink. I swear it's okay. You are doing wonderfully, John."_ _

__It took several more tries before John was able to drink about a cup of water. The glass was only half emptied, but he was at his limit. Breathing heavily through his nose as he had the entire time, John leaned back and shook his head._ _

__"I-I can't...can't...no more, please. Please." He was whispering now in an attempt to remove his stutter, but it only succeeded in making him sound desperate._ _

__Greg took the glass and set it aside. "No more. Oh my god I love you, John. That was...incredible...I'm so proud of...I'm so sorry that scared you, I'm so sorry, but that was amazing."_ _

__He turned John away from the water and snuggled him in close. "We will do whatever you want now. The tree? A film? Crap telly? A book? I love you, I'm so proud of you."_ _

__John gave Greg an exhausted, open mouthed smile and panted against his chest. It was a small thing, but it was beginning to chip away at his programming. Drinking water didn't always bring pain. Sometimes it brought love and affection. "I-I don't...I don't care," he said honestly and recovered his scattered wits in Greg's arms._ _

__Greg was beaming, positively beaming. "Tree and rummy until you're ready for a lie down then," he said warmly._ _

__He gave John a familial kiss right on the forehead, loud and playful, brushing over the place with the pad of his thumb as he set John down and stood up, stretching, picking up the rest of the water and greedily drinking it down himself. He returned the empty cup to the counter and began to collect their things. "Just brilliant, John, you amaze me."_ _

__John trembled in Greg's arms but gave a shaky laugh despite it. Greg's happiness was helping considerably, and the corners of his eyes wrinkled as they used to when he laughed. With Greg smiling and kissing his forehead, John didn't see any reason to be upset. He was still shaking with exhaustion and his breathing was still irregular, but he had a sloppy grin on his face. "Okay, we can do that. I'll do that. Thank you."_ _

__Greg packed John up and had them out of doors in the next fifteen minutes, fanning out a massive quilt under John's tree and dropping a few pillows against the trunk. He put John down there, and then wrapped him up in another quilt, keeping the bag close. Inside were their pills, one which Greg took just before leaving the room, water, and applesauce. There was a pack of cards, and John's laptop._ _

__Greg plopped down next to John and wrapped him back up in a an easy embrace, rocking John happily. "You have made me incredibly happy. John, god that was amazing. I'm so indescribably happy right now. Christ, you are amazing."_ _

__John was practically beaming with pride that he had made Greg happy and he wiggled in his arms to face him properly. "I had some water, and I didn't scream." He loved being rocked, held, and spoken to, and was beginning to think that perhaps this was something he could do for the rest of his life._ _

__"Thank you. Thank you so much. I'm glad I did good. I made you happy. I did that. I did it." He tilted his head back and stared up at the tree. "Thank you for being so kind."_ _

__Greg shifted them so that they were easily reclined. He pulled John down so that John's back was resting on his chest, letting John have an easy view up, or across the courtyard. He wrapped them up tight in the quilt to keep the cold at bay and hummed happily, taking a slow, deep breath and savoring the peace._ _

__"What an amazing day. John, I really...I might get all misty on you if I go on about it but Christ, that was...you did so much better than I was anticipating. You did so much more. I'm so...it's just...I'm running out of vocabulary. Do you want me to read to you? What can I do to make you feel happy?"_ _

__John had his mouth still open and his eyes wrinkled at the corners in a blissful sort of inane appreciation. "You are happy. You're happy and I did that. I'm helping."_ _

__John was beginning to think that if he could make Greg happy, then he wasn't completely useless. "I'll have the water more if it makes you happy. I'll do it to make you happy."_ _

__Greg smiled broadly above John, sliding a hand over John's forehead as he leaned in and kissed the top of John's head, smiling as his eyes burned. "Thank you," he whispered against John's overly long hair, gathering him as tight to his chest as he could, "Thank you. It makes me very happy. Thank you, John"_ _

___It makes me very happy._ _ _

__John welled up with pride and his smile widened. "Thank you for being happy. I wanted you to be happy. I really, really do. If I can...God, it's worth it. It's worth it when you're happy."_ _

__To John, the pain and panic of the ordeal was easily paid for by Greg's smiles and the affection John received. "It's a good reward."_ _

__Greg tucked his face down to the top of John's head and dragged in a deep breath. He was so damn proud of the man, and so vastly relieved that he'd not lost him He'd been so sure he'd lost him.John cared about him enough to hurt for him, and that...Christ that was a good thing to know. It was going to be intolerable when he the inevitable handover to Sherlock happened. He was starting to doubt the need for a gun when he left John at Baker Street, the agony of it all on it's own would likely drop him down. That was fine. It was worth it. It would be everything to think back to this moment, this perfect mix of victory and confirmation, this massive statement of love and worth._ _

__Greg smiled as his eyes stung and he rocked John slowly, savoring the ability to hold him._ _

__John leaned with the motion of the rocking and swayed his head side to side in rhythm. Greg was happy now, and he drank water._ _

__"I'm happy now. You're happy. You're good to me." John sat up then despite the sheer and utter comfort of his current position. He stood, stretched and reached his hand down to Greg._ _

__"Can we walk? I haven't been walking much. I'd like to walk."_ _

__Greg smiled at him and took John's hand, gratefully standing up and lacing their fingers together. "I..this is the best day," Greg whispered like a child, shaking his head at how silly that sounded but fully meaning it all the same. He led them over to the little path, breathing deep and squeezing John's hand._ _

__"I feel like I could burst. It feels damn incredible right now."_ _

__John held Greg's hand and walked slowly down the little path that wrapped around the courtyard. "I made you happy," John repeated to himself and stared up at the sky._ _

__"I've done a good thing today, then. I did good. I had water, and it didn't..." John held Greg's hand and ducked under his arm so it was around his waist. "It didn't _really_ hurt! It hurt, but it didn't _hurt_..."_ _

__Greg smiled as he listened to John reassure himself that he'd done well. Their pace was slow and leisurely, the sun peaking out now and again in the mid morning cold, and Greg's hands had stopped shaking over the last few minutes thanks to the medication Paul had insisted he take. It was the best he'd felt since taking over John's care for Sherlock._ _

__His mind wandered to the second man in question, wondering how he was faring, how Mycroft was managing. Greg had no idea how Mycroft was keeping up with anything. If he had to work on top of caring for John he'd have gone mad._ _

__When they finished a lap, Greg nodded to the tree. "Let's go sit down a bit, let you rest, and then we can walk again later. I don't want you to push yourself too hard."_ _

__John couldn't remember being happier in all his life. He'd climbed a treacherous mountain and Greg was happy with him. Such a thing was the greatest event he could remember ever happening to him._ _

__Hand in hand they walked and John swung his arms despite their slow pace. When the sun made it's occasional appearances John would turn to it and let his face drink in the warm rays._ _

__"Okay, but we'll walk again before we go in." John led them back to the blanket and found the cards in Greg's pack. "Want to play a few rounds?"_ _

__Greg sat down and happily dealt the cards, watching John as they played. He looked...younger, both more like himself and completely different. Greg was amazed how easy it was to breathe, having forgotten what it was like to do so without intense stress and worry._ _

__He shifted the blankets around John's shoulders to keep him warm, and occasionally leaned in, brushing his fingertips over John's hand._ _

__Finally it occurred to him that Mycroft could likely stand good news, and he drew out his phone and texted the man._ _

___John drank half a glass of water this morning! He's outside with me, smiling and playing cards. I can hardly believe it. How is Sherlock?_ _ _

__John loved every bit of his reward for drinking water. He resolved that he would do it as often as he possibly could stand in order to make Greg happy and keep the atmosphere light._ _

__John's tongue occasionally stuck out the corner of his mouth as he played, as it used to when he concentrated. "You've been good to me. Today has been good. I'll drink the water again tomorrow if it makes you happy."_ _

___That is fantastic progress. Sherlock was lucid for quite some time today, but it deteriorated. However, he was making a conscious effort to keep himself aware even when he fell apart. It's a start._ _ _

__Greg smiled at John, tucking his mobile away. There was precious little that could be done for Sherlock from Greg's end, aside from helping get John back on his feet. He played quietly with John, and when the game ended Greg laughed. "You never fail to best me at this one, John. Always." He scooted over under the tree and pulled John to him, snuggling John against his chest._ _

__Paul gave the men several hours before he let himself outside, walking over to them slowly and smiling at John. "You are looking well today," he said warmly, handing Greg a bottle of water for Greg to drink._ _

__"I made Greg happy," John exclaimed first and foremost. He didn't bother to greet Paul, or explain the circumstances other than Greg's current gladness. John was curled up against him, but not out of fear. He didn't feel the need to press himself against Greg for protection against his own mind or fabricated dangers. No, John held onto Greg simply because it was a pleasant thing to do._ _

__"And we walked, and played cards. Greg said I made him happy."_ _

__Paul smiled easily to John. "That's wonderful, John! It feels nice to make the people we love happy. That's wonderful.' He looked over to Greg, taking in the state of him as well. Greg was at the water with a little too much gusto._ _

__"You know, John, today would likely be a good day to read some of your blog again. It's very funny at times, and I'm sure Greg could help you pick an entry. Just a thought."_ _

__John didn't quite shy away from the water, but he gave it a nervous glance._ _

___I can drink water. I can. When I drink water, Greg is happy. Nobody hurts me. I can breathe when I drink water, and Greg will be happy._ _ _

__"My blog?" His brow knitted together and he looked at Greg for his opinion. "I suppose, if Greg thinks it is a good idea. I like stories."_ _

__Greg handed Paul the empty bottle back and looked over to John. "Sure, yeah, I can pick a few of the stories out. You've already read them but it might be more fun today." He leaned in and pressed a fond kiss to John's temple before opening up the bag and fetching out the tablet._ _

__Paul gave them another smile. "I haven't seen to Sherlock today, so I'm going to go handle him. Do either of you need anything else?"_ _

__John smiled up at Greg and decided that even Paul wasn't so bad when he was happy. "Okay, we'll read them. I know some of them are strange. It might be fun to go see what I was thinking at the time. Greg, would you be happy to do that? I want you to be happy."_ _

__Paul nodded to the men and turned away, leaving them to it._ _

__Greg pulled up John's blog and beamed at him, "Yeah it would. It really would. In fact, I heard your stomach rumbling not long ago. What if you had a go with your applesauce while I read to you? There's one here about a midget and a dart gun that is just hilarious."_ _

__He knew he was pushing his luck, but Paul had given John something to make him hungry, and he didn't want John uncomfortable. The timeline had been shifted violently forward, and they had to take bigger steps._ _

__John's face fell as he considered the applesauce. Yes, he was hungry. He was very hungry. But he had decided that he could ignore it until they gave him a feeding tube._ _

__John smiled, however, at the mention of the case. "And there was that boat...what was it? The Aurora? Something like that." John's eyes darted back to the innocent looking cup of applesauce. "I'll try it, but it's going to hurt. It's going to hurt and I'll panic and it won't be happy anymore."_ _

__Greg handed over the cup and a spoon before situating John against his chest. "It won't hurt. You are just going to work at that while I read you a story, and just like the water, nothing bad is going to happen."_ _

__He kissed the side of John's head again and then held the tablet in front of the man as one would read a picture book to a child, starting in on John's words without giving John a chance to reply._ _

__John held the spoon in his hand and listened to the story. "This will make you happy, right?" He asked and opened the cup. "And then I'll be happy, because..." John scooped up some of the sauce in the small spoon and stared at it for several moments before bringing it to his lips. He gave another mournful, pleading look to Greg and brought the spoon into his mouth._ _

__John's jaw clamped down and he released the spoon where it was caught tight between his teeth. His breathing picked up immediately and he dug his fingers into his hair._ _

___Aren't you hungry, John? Go on, eat something. I won't hurt you if you do._ _ _

___That's very, very bad, John. You know you aren't allowed to eat. I'll let you choose today. The knife, or the clamps?_ _ _

__Greg set the tablet aside and took John's hands from his hair. "You are outside, at your tree, with me. John. You are safe. No one is coming to hurt you. I don't want you to hurt yourself. Should I read a different story?"_ _

__John swallowed the applesauce and immediately began to cry._ _

___If you don't eat something, John, I'll remove your fingers. It isn't a trick this time. Aren't you hungry?_ _ _

__John put the clean spoon back in the applesauce and wrinkled his nose. He was caught between hunger, the desire to please Greg, and the overwhelming fear of being punished. "I-I-I can't," he exclaimed apologetically. "Can't! Please, don't be sad, don't be sad. Don't be sad."_ _

__Greg moved the cup away and wrapped John tighter in his arms, closing his eyes and forcing himself to just breathe for a minute. John's panic was driving his own terror of failure and he was struggling to keep steady._ _

__"Okay, John," he whispered after a moment, "Okay."_ _

__John whimpered in his failure. He was devastated that he couldn't keep Greg happy, that he couldn't do something as simple as eat, even when Greg's emotions were on the line. "I'm sorry," he pleaded and hugged Greg tighter._ _

__"Please be happy, please, I-I can try again, and I'll be okay and you'll hug me and be happy." John's breath hitched and his eyes filled with tears. His emotions were rather unstable since the months of torture, and there was little he could do._ _

__Greg hugged John close and shook his head, keeping his voice steady. "You are doing fine, John, you're doing fine. It's okay, it's all okay. Just breathe, I won't ask you to do that again. I'm sorry, John. It's...it's okay."_ _

__John had tears beginning to make tracks down his previously happy face. "I-I can do this," he exclaimed and took the cup again. "I w-want you to be happy."_ _

__John had found a motivator far stronger than his own improvement; Greg's happiness. When Greg had kissed him on the head and hugged him, John had decided that going through the pain was worth it. He held the little cup again and filled the spoon._ _

__"G-Gonna do this...and you'll be happy again. Please tell me you'll be happy again."_ _

__Greg nuzzled the side of John's neck, holding him close. "Everything is okay, John. It's all okay. I know you're scared but this is all okay."_ _

__John put the spoonful in his mouth and only bit down for a few moments._ _

___Greg will be happy. Greg is going to be happy if I can do this._ _ _

__He swallowed the applesauce and looked to Greg for approval._ _

__Greg gave John a calm smile despite the way his hands had started to shake again, leaning into him and giving John a squeeze. "You are doing very well," he whispered._ _

__John managed to take two more bites before dissolving into fear. The voices that spoke gently, but loudly, in his head were pestering him to keep going, then after each bite condemning him to torture. "Can't...I had some and...no more, please."_ _

__Greg took the cup away from John and then pulled him back into his arms. "What should we do now? Another walk? Bit of a rest? I can keep reading to you."_ _

__John shut his eyes and whimpered into Greg's chest. "I'm so sorry," he said and wiped tears out of his eyes. "I-I-I wanted t-to make you happy. I r-really wanted t-to make you happy and-and-and I f-failed!!"_ _

__Greg put his hands on John's shoulders and eased him back so that he could see his face. "You've made me so happy today, John. Happier than I've been in a long time. You have not failed. You have not failed at all. I'm happy, and I want to take a walk with you. I just need to give you a bit of a feed and then can we walk?"_ _

__John held Greg's hand and brought it to his shaking lips. "C-Can we still be happy? Can we be happy today, even though I messed up?"_ _

__John was crushed that he had seemingly ruined Greg's happiness, and the feeling of worthlessness was starting to creep up on him._ _

__Greg turned his hand so that he could press his palm to John's cheek. "You did not mess up, I'm so proud of you." He gave John the best smile he was capable of. "I'm still happy, John, it's still a very good day."_ _

__John smiled back, but without the gleefulness of before. He had failed, and Greg wasn't as happy as before. "I can try again. I can. I can make you happy. Let m-me t-try again!"_ _

__Greg pulled John into his arms, resting John's chin on his shoulder and threading his fingers through John's hair. He wanted to explain himself, explain that he wasn't as happy now because he'd spoiled John's day and Christ he hated himself. It would only upset John worse._ _

__"I'm so happy with you, John. You can eat if you are hungry, but I don't want you to upset yourself. You've done amazing and I'm so proud. Please don't be upset, I'm so proud of you."_ _

__John brightened a bit when he heard Greg say he was happy, but the air had lost its happy hum. The world had gone back to it's dull shades of grey and black as the happy colors faded from his mind. "Would it make you happier if I ate the rest of it? I'll do it. I'll do anything."_ _

__Greg smiled at John, "Yeah, it would, John. It would." It felt disgusting to push him like this, to play at his need to make Greg happy, but John had to begin eating again. He touched the side of John's face and then drew him back in close._ _

__"I love you, it's okay if you can't today, alright?"_ _

__Greg scooted so that the were touching from knee to hip to shoulder. He slung an arm across John's back and smiled at him._ _

__"I wonder if you remember the night we had to bail Molly out of lockup?"_ _

__He began to talk about that hilarious night, when she'd been a bit too sauced and slapped the barman, who insisted on pressing charges until Greg got hold of his record and pressed him to leave off._ _

__John gave a small nod and continued to take tiny spoonfuls of the applesauce. Little, tiny tastes that he could barely feel in his mouth and required little more than his usual swallowing._ _

__"R-R-Remember that...I-I r-remember it...and.." John winced when a startling clear image of his first food related beating played inside his mind. He had eaten nearly half of the cup, which wasn't very much considering how long he had been working._ _

___Greg will love me more. Greg will hug me and smile and say I've done well. It will be good._ _ _


	3. Cogs

Paul made his way to Sherlock's room, slowly passing through security. He knocked gently on the door and pushed it open, finding Mycroft next to his brother. "Morning," he whispered, not sure if Sherlock was awake or not. 

Mycroft looked up from the pillow he shared with Sherlock and motioned for Paul to come over. "He's sedated, but he might come out of it. He fights the medications frequently." Mycroft had dark circles under his eyes and looked paler than he had before this began.

Paul moved to a chair at Sherlock's side, positioning himself where Mycroft could comfortably see him without shifting. "You need to rest," he said factually, without preamble. "I understand you've a tremendous amount on your plate, Mycroft, I do. You appear ill. If your health fails, Sherlock will have to endure this alone. There must be things that can be delegated. This will not hold." 

Despite speaking very softly, Sherlock began to stir at his voice. His fingers twitched and he began to breathe faster, thought it only lasted a few moments. Soon he was back down, motionless. 

Mycroft held his phone up or Paul to see. "I have been delegating as much of my work as possible. Still, there remains things that require me to look over and approve. That alone would be enough to keep me occupied while not with Sherlock." 

When Sherlock stirred, Mycroft spoke gently to him and massaged his fingers through his brother's hair. "I'll sleep once he is able to do so without distress."

Paul hummed as he thought about it. "Mycroft, it is doubtful Sherlock will be resting comfortably for quite some time. You've still got to rest. I can sit with him. You desperately need sleep, Mycroft."

Mycroft was well aware that he needed sleep, but didn't want to leave Sherlock alone. "I can sleep here."

Paul nodded, "I think you'll be more comfortable here, yes. I can give you something to help you rest, or at the least quiet your mind for an hour or so." He put his palms up to stay Mycroft for a moment, "I know you are a proud man, and further, a man capable of enduring massive amounts of stress. I understand this very well, Mycroft. It does nothing to change how you are faring right now, in this moment. I'll not push it, I just need you to understand my professional opinion. You are still a man, and Sherlock is still your baby brother, and you've the weight of the world on your shoulders. I'd like to help, if you will allow it."

Mycroft pulled Sherlock just a bit closer. He was handling the stress quite well, all things considered. He'd remained held together while Sherlock was captured and managed to keep a level head in order to recover him. He was doing well, but was still deteriorating. 

"I will sleep. I appreciate your advice, and will be making this room more comfortable for both Sherlock and myself."

Paul drew in a slow, audible breath and nodded. "Alright, Mycroft. If there's anything I can do to help, please let me know." 

He stood up slowly, just as Sherlock cried out and tugged harshly at the restraints in what looked to be a Hail Mary exhaustion of all his resources against the sedation. A tear slid down Sherlock's cheek before he went still again, his heart racing as his breathing steadied back out. Paul shook his head in sympathy for the man and spoke again to Mycroft. 

"If you ever decide you want my help, there will be no record of it. I don't mean to offend, I honestly would like to help. I don't know how you've managed. You're an incredible man, Mycroft." 

He turned and walked out before Mycroft could insult him for such a comment, knowing it likely meant nothing to him. 

Mycroft dropped his head down to Sherlock's shoulder and took deep breaths. He needed to keep himself together for Sherlock's sake.   
"I'll keep you safe now," he muttered with a quiet voice. "I'll keep you safe. You and John will go and do whatever it is you do. You'll be happy again. I promise."

Sherlock shifted, drawing in a deep, sharp breath and flexing his fingers. His eyes danced beneath the lids, locked in dreams he could not surface from despite his intense efforts. He whimpered pathetically, still locked in the sedation despite himself. 

Mycroft ran his fingers back through Sherlock's hair in an attempt to soothe him. "It's alright, I love you. I love you. My little 'Lock. I'll going to keep you safe."

Sherlock cried out, his eyes fluttering open, starting without focus across the room as his heart raced. "I'm sorry," he breathed, voice laced heavy with dread, "y-your right I'm...don't, oh god don't...I'll...no please, please I can't..." He went very still suddenly, tense as he locked his muscles up tight.

Mycroft held Sherlock's head to his chest and spoke loudly. "Sherlock, it's me! My! Don't worry, nobody is going to hurt you." God, he couldn't even begin to count how many times he had said those words.

_Sherlock was hardly breathing as his heart rolled in his chest. He'd mouthed off again, unable to keep his rage in check, still unwilling to kowtow to Moran yet._

__If I whip you any more today you'll not have enough skin left to protect yourself._ _

_The blade bit into his knee and he could feel the scrape of it along the bone. He could not stop the tears as he began trembling hard on the table. As had become his habit, he twisted his hands in the restraints, grabbing the chains and holding on for dear life as his breathing shattered in and out of his lungs._

_'I like when you bleed, Sherlock, you're delectable like this. You know how excited that screaming gets me.'  
White hot blistering pain shot down his leg and he arched of the table, twisting and screaming at the top of his lungs._

Mycroft hushed Sherlock and sat up a bit. "I'm here, Sherlock. I'm here. I love you. It's going to be alright." Mycroft kissed the top of his little 'Lock's curly head. "I'm keeping you safe. Could you breathe for me? Deep breaths in?" 

_Sherlock tried to jerk his leg away, his grip bloodless on the chains. Time warped and twisted on him in the haze of the sedative he'd only partially managed to escape, caught now in a chaotic, nonlinear waking nightmare. Pain flared as he torqued on the bed, deep and intimate, Moran's laughter sliding across his mind. He gagged as tears slid down his cheeks._

Mycroft took the sides of Sherlock's face in his hands and shouted. "SHERLOCK! It is me! It's MY! Mycroft is here! I'm here, little 'Lock. I'm here!" He desperately wanted Sherlock to stop struggling, to stop accidentally hurting himself. 

Sherlock grit his teeth, nearly blacking out as he was shouted at. If Moran was angry enough to shout then the pain that was coming was going to be spectacular. He stopped breathing in terrified anticipation, silent and quaking in his fear.   
"My," he finally managed to pathetically call out, just the sound of his brother's name making him suddenly break like a child. He began to scream desperately in French, panic cloaking over his mind like frigid oil. "MY! M-MY HELP! MY!" It was pointless to call out for aid, he knew that, but his panicked mind was pressed to the wall in desperation.

Mycroft held Sherlock's shoulder with one hand and cupped his head with the other. "I'm so sorry, Sherlock. I'm here for you now. I'm here. It's me! MY! It's MYCROFT!" 

His voice cracked and he held Sherlock a bit tighter. "Come back to me, 'Lock. Come back to me." Mycroft pressed a kiss to the top of Sherlock's head and prayed it wouldn't upset him.

Miller came into the room soon after he heard the screaming. Sherlock had not wailed like that in a very long time. He did not bother to knock, walking right in and taking in the scene. Sherlock was in babbling hysterics, sobbing and tense, clearly trying to escape things he and Mycroft could not see. German and French slipped to Latin and English and Miller swore the room simply reeked of the sickly sweet tang of fear.

"He should still be down," he said as he went to Sherlock's side, pressing his fingers to Sherlock's pulse as the monitors went nuts. 

Sherlock's unfocused eyes suddenly locked to him and he clamped his jaw shut, gagging and turning away, shaking his head and pressing into his brother as much as possible without any real idea what he was doing. Innately he sought out protection in his sibling. 

"Hell," Miller whispered as he took a swift step back, realizing the meaning behind Sherlock's tightly closed teeth. 

"I can sedate him again, might compromise his breathing but we can try that, or I can give a reversing agent and knock the sedative out of him. One or the other, I can't leave him like this." 

"Oh, god..." Mycroft wished now that Moriarty had been alive to temper Moran. Or, better still, that he had been there when his brother needed him. "No, do something... Reversing agent. Wake him up. Perhaps it will take him out of this...this dream." Mycroft clutched Sherlock to him and held his little brother's head to his shoulder. 

"He thinks Moran is..Oh, god, _Sherlock_. Sherlock! Its ME! It's MY!" The pained older brother watched in desperation and agony while Sherlock gagged against him. "MY! It's MY!" His own heart rate had soared, and he shifted so he was covering Sherlock with his arms. "It's alright, Sherlock. Please, it's alright."

Dr. Miller swiftly drew up the Narcan and began pushing it into Sherlock's line. Sherlock had his face pressed to the center of Mycroft's chest, breathing in absolute, unbridled panic, shaking with enough force to jangle the bed. The Narcan was swift and soon Sherlock's posture changed to something that looked more intentional. Sherlock snapped awake, finally recognizing the scent of his brother just before he _screamed_ in a mix of panicked fear and bone-jarring rage, the sound of it dwindling down to open, shattering sobs. 

"My _hands_ ," he wailed, not making any attempt to calm himself down now that he knew he was safe, that Moran had faded away, simply traumatized from the fear of fear itself, the effects of post traumatic stress syndrome kicking in hard. He tugged at the restraints, keeping as close to his brother as possible as he screamed again, less intense than the last, far less rage and far more frightened. 

Sherlock's screams tore at Mycroft's very core. He shuddered and held Sherlock as close to him as he possibly could without hurting his damaged body. He drew away for one single moment, to take his jacket off and drape it around Sherlock so he was protected from every angle. "Listen, Sherlock, it's ME! It's MY! Mycroft!" 

Mycroft held him as tightly as he could, but he still felt far away. "It's alright. It's okay. I'm right here for you. I can unclasp your arm, but you need to promise you won't hurt yourself." 

Sherlock tugged desperately at his wrist, using jarring force in his panic to flee a threat he could not see, but could feel just at his back. He shivered violently and twisted his wrist, flaring pain up his side as he tugged sutures and stressed damage tendons. "PLEASE," he shouted, blindly panicking, "MY P-PLEASE! PLEASE OH GOD, M-MY PLEASE!" 

Mycroft hastily unclasped the soft restraints and gingerly moved his arm to rest across his chest. "Keep still, Sherlock. Please, don't hurt yourself. It's me. It's Mycroft. Mycroft is here to help you." He spoke in Latin and repeated the phrases in French, then German, then Hungarian, hoping he would eventually appeal to Sherlock's mind. 

Sherlock dug his fingers into Mycroft's shirt, clutching to him with as much effort as it he were swinging free from an aeroplane door. "Please!" he shouted through tears, his voice cracking like a child's, fist shaking horribly against his brother's chest, "m-make him leave me alone! My, _please_ I d-d-don't want him to t-touch me anymore please, _p-please-pleaseMyplease!_ " 

Miller moved to the very far end of the room and then decided to just leave. If Mycroft needed him he could simply shout. Sherlock was in the worst panic Miller had observed him in even since the first day he was recovered. Sherlock's tone was much like a young teenager sobbing through a changing voice. He pressed a hand over his own racing heart, closing his eyes and taking a deep breath when the door closed back again. 

"My help! My help h-h-he's going to- My help me help, My please-" Sherlock begged, sobbing between the words, overcome with fear. 

Mycroft could have broken down, were he not trying so desperately to calm Sherlock. "H-He won't touch you," Mycroft responded loudly and clutched his brother. "He won't touch you. It's Mycroft. Mycroft is here and going to protect you. I love you. I will protect you. I swear I will protect you better." His own failings flung up into his face, Mycroft held his broken brother and tears filled his eyes. 

"I tried to protect you. I never expected...Christ, I never thought..." He hadn't expected Moran to be so sexually abusive. It had touched his mind as a possibility, but it didn't seem constructive to any sort of psychological conditioning that Sherlock could be given. He realized now that Moran was sloppy and brutal, not sly and cunning like Moriarty had been. 

"I'm going to protect you. I'm here. My is here."

Sherlock immediately began to relax as his brother assured him, sobbing his thanks into Mycroft's shirt, the tension slowly easing out of him though he did not yield his grip. He tried his best to wrap around his brother, ignoring the pain of moving in favor of potential comfort. His brother had him. He was going to be alright. 

"Y-you came," he managed, hiccuping with tears, "you c-came and g-got me. Th-Thank you, M-My, tha...tha-nk y-you," he managed as he did his best to hide his face in the safety of his brother's shirt.

"J-John is gone, My...h-h-h'es n-n-not hurting anymore."

"John isn't hurting anymore," Mycroft reassured, though he wasn't sure if Sherlock meant John was safe or simply dead. Mycroft pulled his jacket closer around Sherlock's shoulders for extra comfort. 

"I came for you, and you are safe. You are so, very safe. I've got you, and nothing will ever happen to you again. My has you."

It took nearly half an hour for Sherlock to quiet, the tears slowly calming, though his breathing was still catching like a child done with a hard cry. He was overly hot from the force of his panic, sweat slicked and shivering. His fingers ached in the material of Mycroft's shirt and Sherlock hissed as he slowly uncurled them. 

"I-I'm ssorry I d-d-d-did that to your paper, My. I w-was mad at you a-ab-about the d-d-d-dog and- please don't l-leave me here with him. Please. I'll...I'll d-do your washing and t-take out the rubbish. J-Just don't let him h-have at me anymore, god p-please I- I'm sorry My I l-love you please k-keep me safe. I can't t-t-take it any longer please I- h-h-he's going to come b-back with the knife and the sc-c-corching clamps a-a--and he's going to burn m-me and-" he choked down a sob, teeth chattering and shaking, "when he's d-d-done with the tools he'll j-just use h-h-himself and I c-can't anymore. K-Keep me safe, My p-please I am s-s-so scared." He'd slid back hard, the child speaking to the teenage, idolized elder brother. 

Mycroft's insides twisted and ripped at his pleas. 

"Sherlock, brother, I will protect you. Moran will die if he comes near you. Would you like that? If Moran comes near you, I'll kill him. If anyone tried to hurt you, I'll kill them too. It's going to be alright from now on. There will be no more burning, no more cutting, no more touching." Mycroft was close to tears of rage, but his face was calm. He supressed his own need for revenge with the knowledge that he could do more good for Sherlock if he was calm. "I love you, and I will protect you. Always."

Sherlock nodded against Mycroft and held on tight to him. He calmed back down after a few minutes, slowly relaxing against his brother. "I d-don't like it here, My, I w-w-want to go home," he breathed, slipping back to Baker Street. "John...d-does he know I'm...d-does...h-have you called him? I w-want John, My...I want...I w-want J _-John_ where is John, M-My? Wh-where is J-John?" 

Sherlock lifted his head with great effort, exposing his ashen, tear-streaked face, sweeping his eyes over the room before slowly lying back down. "H-Ha-Have you called h-him? I want John, My, w-where is John?"

"John is safe. John is outside, taking a walk. He was so worried about you. I don't think he can come talk to you right now, but he might be able to call. Would that be alright? Would you like to talk to John on the phone?" Mycroft was worried hearing John's voice over a device might spark some sort of negative reaction or trigger his memories of the recording, but his brother's requests were difficult to ignore. Mycroft sent another group text. 

_Sherlock has requested John. Whatever you can arrange would help._

Sherlock looked up at Mycroft then, his brow knitting, trying to put the chaos of information together. He looked at his reality as a massive jigsaw scattered in a heap at his feet. "W-Why can't he...c-c-come..." he closed his eyes and tried to remember, knowing there was some massive chunk of information missing. 

There was a pause before an expression of deep sadness crossed over his face. His brows pinched shut and he whimpered at the images of John on the table, screaming for help. "I...I d-didn't g-g-get to him in time...I w-was too l-l-late. He was always t-t-t-telling me I was late. H-he...no d-don't make him talk to m-me. I j-just..." he pushed his face back into the dark harbor of his brother's chest. "I f-f-forgot I lost h-him." 

Greg read the text and looked up at John, leaning in and pressing a kiss to John's cheek. "I'm so proud of you." He responded to the text without drawing John's attention. 

_Don't think we will be much help today._

"You didn't lose him," Mycroft asserted immediately. "He's only a bit tired. He'll come around. Maybe a video? One of him smiling and happy? He'll smile at you and say he is glad you are safe. Would you like that?" 

_Anything will do._

Mycroft curled himself around his little brother, who felt much smaller for having been starved so terribly. "John isn't lost. He loves you, remember?"

John, who was still slowly working away at the applesauce, took the kiss as encouragement and continued on with his tiny scoops. 

Sherlock grit his teeth and shouted, "No please! Don't _m-make him_ do things, please!" he shook his head, grabbing hold of Mycroft's arm and holding tight. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry! Please...pl-please." 

Greg tipped his head to the side of John's as the man slowly ate. He sighed, utterly conflicted. He wanted so badly to help Sherlock, but John was finally _eating_ and he'd pushed him so hard already. He responded again. 

_I have John eating, Mycroft. He's eating. Can this be delayed? I want to help Sherlock, I think this is the best way._

One of the monitors blipped and Sherlock suddenly screamed, scrambling closer to Mycroft. "NO please My, please n-not him again please I- please _please no_!" 

"Okay! Okay, Sherlock, it's alright. I'll not make John do anything. I'll not make him do a thing. But he likes sending you videos, and he might just choose to anyway." Mycroft's nerves were bristled like an angry dog and he held Sherlock as tight as he dared. 

_Eating? I suppose I won't interrupt that. Fantastic work, Greg._

Mycroft didn't dare to interrupt progress like that. "You are safe. You are safe with me, Sherlock." 

\---  
John nibbled away with bites hardly big enough to taste and moved in infinitesimally small progressions. "I'm going to make Greg happy," he muttered to himself. 

Greg held him tight, exceedingly glad Mycroft had not pushed the issue. 

\---

"My," Sherlock begged, exhausted and shaking, "d-don't put him on the s-s-screen I d-don't want to see anymore. I d-don't-" He shifted and caught one of his more intimately placed lines of sutures, freezing and closing his eyes as he held his breath. "I...I'm tired...c-c-c-can't I just go to s-sleep?" he pleaded like a child, letting go of Mycroft and sliding his hand down to cover himself, starting to cry again in dread and anticipation. 

"Please I'm s-so tired." 

 

Mycroft nodded and petted Sherlock's hair as if he were a child, and indeed, Sherlock needed to be treated with the same emotional care as one. "You can sleep. Sleep, and I'll protect you. I'll keep you safe. You'll be safe here with me. Nobody will hurt you."

Sherlock held his damaged hand behind him, trying to curl into a ball, gathering the blankets and bunching them up to cover himself. 

"I'm scared," he breathed, wanting to hold on to Mycroft but unable to take his hand away from between his legs, tears sliding down his cheeks as the sutures began to burn in earnest. He whimpered and shook his head, "It hurts, g-god it hurts m-m-more than I could have possibly...it's n-n-not good, My, it's n-not...I'm scared, I don't w-want him, I'm scared! I w-want to go home! I'm- My don't l-l-let him near me I p-promise I'll do m-my maths and n-n-not fuss over it please! It _h-hurts!_ "

Mycroft pulled Sherlock flush against his chest and rocked him gently. 

"Sherlock, I promise you, Moran will never touch you again. He will never hurt you or even look at you without me killing him. I will keep you safe. I know you don't want him, and I know you are scared. You've been so brave, Sherlock. You're so strong. It's over now. You can relax. It's over."

Sherlock slowly let go of the blankets, reaching back up for Mycroft and wrapping his hand in Mycroft's shirt. He was breathing in chaotic, shattering gasps, shivering hard and hanging on for dear life. It only took ten minutes for him to fall into sleep, going slack against his brother as his heart rate slowed and his breathing began to steady out. 

Mycroft kept his composure throughout the hideous display of fear and abuse. He comforted his little 'Lock, the man so quickly reverted to a child, and finally, after Sherlock had been asleep for a half hour, allowed himself to drop off as well. 

\---

While Sherlock had been in a panic, Greg and John had carried on outside as they had been. 

"You are making me very happy, John. You see? You're safe. Just like the water, and talking, you are safe. I've got you. I'm so happy with you right now." 

What John was doing scarcely counted as eating. He had an odd relationship with the applesauce, some days managing to eat it and some days not at all able to even think on it. He was trying though, and that's all Greg wanted. 

John dipped the spoon into the applesauce and pulled it out straight. A small coating of the food clung to his spoon, which was about as big a bite as he could manage at the moment. Just the action of moving the spoon into his mouth was terrifying and with each repetition he grew more emotionally frayed. But Greg was going to be happy, and he pressed on. 

"H-hurts," he half pleaded and stared into the cup. It was about half way empty, and John remembered that Greg had been happy with that amount when it came to the water. 

Greg leaned in and brushed his fingers along John's wrist before taking the cup from him. 

"I am so happy with you," he said warmly, giving John a broad smile that reached his eyes and reflected in his voice. He dipped the spoon into the applesauce and gathered a bit just at the tip. "Will you let me? Just...try a bite like this and see if it's just as bad? If I'm feeding you, it's the same as me giving a feeding, yeah? You can just relax and let me ...just try for me?" 

John had his lips pressed in a tight line. He didn't want to be fed like a child, but found that he was already being cradled, and the small amount of pride vanished. John _needed_ to make Greg proud, and have a small nod.

"Alright. I'll try." 

John reluctantly opened his mouth and his lower lip trembled. He had been force fed before, when he had resolved to die but still had months to go. 

"This...you aren't going to hurt me, right? I just n-need to hear it."

Greg held him and shook his head. "I am not going to hurt you. There will be no punishment and this is okay. I just want to make sure your blood sugar doesn't dip low, and this will eventually be more pleasant for you than me giving you a feed through your nose." 

He pressed a kiss to the side of John's head and then tipped his forehead to John's temple, whispering just above his ear. "I love you," as he brought the spoon to John's mouth. 

John took the small spoon if applesauce without arguing but with a heavy amount of trembling. He went limp against Greg out of sheer exhaustion. The short walk had drained him, though he instead it was drinking half a glass of water that had done so. "Greg," he muttered and stared imploringly at him, "I d-don't like this."

Greg set the cup aside then and stood up, reaching down and pulling John up with him. He was determined to keep John from dropping down into panic. "Alright then, let's have a walk. I love you, let's have a walk." He grinned at John and laced their fingers together, starting to tug him toward the path. "You are okay, you are. Come on, let's walk." 

John followed closely behind, but not beside him as he had before. John was terribly ashamed with himself now, and hid behind Greg's back. 

"I'm sorry," he whispered and his chin sank to his chest. "I-I'm-m'sorry. I'm t-trying to make you happy." 

Greg stopped, glad they were on their feet, and turned to wrap John in his arms, close to his chest. He was incredibly glad for the difference in height, resting his chin on the crown of John's head. "I love you. I am so happy with you. There is no reason to be sorry! You had _half a cup of water_ AND you _ate_. You've been walking with me and you kicked my arse at Rummy. Today is brilliant, and you are brilliant." 

John's breath hitched once and he wiped the tears out of his eyes. John looked at Greg with the utmost admiration and love.

"Do you mean it? I tried so hard, because, because I-I want you to be happy because I love you. I don't like eating, or drinking. B-but y-you were happy and then I was happy." It was simple, basic, cause and effect logic, but it was the best he was capable of at the moment 

Greg beamed down at him, lifting a hand to John's cheek and brushing the pad of his thumb along the bone there. 

"I really mean it. It makes me so happy to see you try. I know it's hard, I know it's scary, and you are doing that for me anyhow. It makes me very happy. I can tell you why later, if you'd like, but the short of it is that you've made me so, so happy today. Come walk beside me, I like you beside me." 

Reassured by Greg's words, John took his hand and followed beside him. He walked in silence for quite some time, taking little, shuffling steps and admiring the change of scenery as they circled the tree. "Why does it make you happy when I do things like eating, even though I don't like it?"

Greg squeezed John's hand, smiling widely as he answered. 

"Because I love to see you win. He intended to take everything away, so that even when he wasn't around, you'd die. Here you are, living. Thriving. He meant for the fear to stop you from trying. I love to see you winning. It's like...you know when you watch a race, and the one bloke is ? _so close_ to the finish line but his leg breaks? You root for him while he's dragging himself to the finish, even though you know he's in pain, because he is determined to win anyhow. That's how I see you, John. You are this incredible man, in incredible pain, and you are _still moving._ It's...god it's...unbelievable. I've never been more proud of anyone outside of my kids like this, John. Never." 

John listened quietly, moved to some strange emotion somewhere between pride and shame. He was greatly pleased with himself for making Greg smile. Greg had always been a source of laughter and companionship for him, and to see some of that old cheerfulness restored was a blessing he thought he would be living life without. But he was also ashamed, because it was so very little. If he was to the point where drinking half a cup of water was his Everest, would he ever function normally? 

"How long did it take me?" John asked quietly. His features were still turned up and bright from the praise, but he was curious to know how long it had been. 

Greg stopped walking and looked at him, noting the sadness in his voice. "John, you've been overcoming massive, massive obstacles for months now. It's not fair to ask how long this took you. You've tackled something major every month, and water...water is the hardest. _I_ accidentally set you back when I scared the life out of you, and you've been dealing with the trauma from the raid, and then working through your issues with Sherlock's name and voice, so...so many things. You said last week...four days ago...that you were going to drink water, and today you have." 

John wrapped his arms around his beloved protector's waist and dipped his head onto his shoulder. "It's been months. Years? I don't know. I can't remember. I forgot about the sky, Greg. I forgot about the sky. I just forgot. I don't remember saying that four days ago. It feels like this morning, or...or maybe a month ago. I don't know. All I know is its been a long long time. The only part I know is that you've been there. You were there for me when I couldn't speak and I hit you, and I would hurt you and yell at you." John dipped his head and gripped Greg a bit tighter. "You...god, I don't know why you've been there, but you're the only thing I can remember. You're the only constant thing." He looked up and met Greg's eyes. "I owe you all of my progress."

Greg smiled at him to reassure him, though he shook his head. "We will put up a big calendar, John, and that way you can watch the days. Let's get you blogging again. I'll help you, and we can write down all your progress. That will help, if you can see it." 

He hugged John to him, holding him tight. "It's not been just me, John. Sherlock ran with you in his arms away from Moriarty. Sherlock stayed at your side until he was forcibly removed, even when he couldn't be in the room with you, he was always outside your door, protecting you. He didn't leave that hospital until I came and stood watch, and they _made_ him leave. It's not just been me. You are deeply loved, John." 

John liked the thought of a calendar, and was once again reminded that Greg was the best at helping him. Blogging and telling the world that he couldn't bathe himself, however, seemed a bit daunting, even if he left out the personal information. 

"Sherlock did that?" John couldn't remember Sherlock carrying him away from Moriarty. He could remember one thing very clearly, and that was being cut. "I thought...I thought he cut me. But it was Moran? They did that, I think. He'd put the thing on," he gestured to his eyes, "and pretend Moran was Sherlock." John stopped himself before he went down that path again and shook his head. "Sherlock doesn't seem the type to love. You do. You're keeping me safe."

Greg hummed softly as they walked, giving himself a moment to put his thoughts together. 

"Sherlock...Sherlock is bad at people. You were very good at helping him with that. He just...doesn't speak the same language. He behaves aloof and belittling when he's in a situation he doesn't understand, or a situation that makes him feel foolish. He's...always been afraid to show his more human side." 

Greg closed his eyes for a moment as they walked, recalling the months on end that Sherlock was a complete, panicked mess. He could practically hear Sherlock telling them goodbye. _Tell John I loved him._

"No, John, I can't...as much as I love you I can't just let you believe...listen. Listen to me." He stopped and stepped in front of John, reaching out and holding John's shoulders. 

"Sherlock loves you. He...He did everything in his power...he was the one who got you tapping...he always let you out of your restraints even when he was told not to, he couldn't stand...you would ask him for something and he gave it without hesitation. He...god...John...he checked all your medication before it was given to you, he never moved away from your door when you wouldn't see him. He threatened every single staff member and when he found out that doctor was hurting you he nearly beat him to death with his bare hands. If you'd been able to be around Sherlock, he would be standing next to you right now. I'm...I'm so glad to be able to help you, and I love you deeply, but Sherlock...Sherlock tried his hardest to be the one here today and when he knew that was impossible, he sacrificed himself to keep you safe. He _loves you_ , John." 

John listened with a somber expression as Greg spoke and his wide, childlike eyes scanned his protector's face. "If Sherlock loves me...then..." John shook his head. It was too big a truth to swallow. 

John turned and took small, dejected steps back towards the tree. There was a branch just out of his reach, and for a moment he looked up at it, wondering if he would ever be able to climb again. It was a foolish notion. John hadn't climbed a tree in years, and it hadn't been part of his life since he was a kid. That he should be sad at the loss of such an activity was illogical.

John turned away from the tree and sat down. "I might have loved Sherlock, once. I did, I think. I cared about him. I still do. I still want him to be safe and happy. God knows we all worked to keep him safe. Sometimes Mycroft would call and say it was a danger night, and I'd cancel everything and try and stay with him. He'd ignore me, though. Or talk about science I didn't understand. I figured..." John picked a small blade of grass and started tearing it into smaller strips. 

"If Sherlock loved me, why didn't he ask me not to go to Africa? Why didn't he say something, or at least...I don't know, look like he would miss me? If he had given me any reason to stay I would have taken it. I always did. Hell, I've left good dates to bring him his phone from the kitchen when he couldn't be bothered to get up. I'm alive because I want him to be alright. I suppose...I suppose I love him, but he isn't my friend. It doesn't hurt to look at friends." 

John closed his eyes then as a voice rang in his head. 

_In the end, it will be you that burns the heart out if him. Not me, you. He's got such walls, John. Such walls. I need someone who can stab him from the inside._

He had only been a few days in at the time, and had sworn that would never happen. 

It wasn't John's fault, it truly wasn't, and Greg knew that. Despite that fact, it still tore at him to hear John say as much. Had Sherlock been privy to the conversation they were having, he'd likely never come back from it. Greg sat knee-to-knee, watching John pick at the grass. 

"You are not remembering him accurately. You...your blog might help, later, if you ever want..." he had to stop talking for a moment, taking in a slow breath as his gut twisted, aching for Sherlock. If he'd truly lost John in the end...

"When you were talking about...about Africa...Sherlock gathered every medically challenging case we had. I don't know if you remember, but all the cases he needed a doctor to help solve. He rejected anything he didn't think would hold your attention. He's...he's a total child when it comes to how he feels about you, John. He...this is a man who guards against everything. 'Freak,' remember? You and I...we are the _only_ people in his life outside of his brother who did not hate him for how he was. The cases...those were his desperate attempts to keep you here." 

Greg dragged a hand over his head and pushed the tightness in his throat down. He never wanted to leave John, not ever, but John and Sherlock _belonged together._

"If...if you decide you'd rather not...not have him in your life, please don't...please don't tell him these things. Just tell him goodbye, and nothing else. He'd never...he wouldn't survive it. He wouldn't. It would...destroy him to hear it."   
"I'm not doing this to spite him," John said in a subdued voice, then louder. "I'm not! I want Sherlock to be happy more than I want to live. I guess that's really not saying much..." He had torn a small bit of the ground bare and played with a small twig. "Why couldn't he just...I don't know, say he didn't want me to leave? Those cases were brilliant, they were, but...if I was going to stay at Baker Street, it wouldn't have been for the cases." 

John couldn't think of any other way to explain it. He wanted desperately for Sherlock to be alright, and he cared deeply about him. With his recent clarity he was remembering events before his torture, but apparently his view of Sherlock was warped. He wasn't exactly surprised. 

"Sherlock wasn't a freak, and I loved him. I never meant for this to happen. If I could go back, I would. I would. I didn't want to hurt him, I promise. I swear it. But this...God, I really am trying. I did good, didn't I? I helped him as best as I could. I'll continue to help him as long as I can, but it hurts. He hurts to be near." John admitted this as one would a mortal sin, with his eyes down and expression pained. 

"I know now that he loves me. I know. I love him, but I'm still...I'm broken. Moriarty ruined me. I know I'm improving, but it still hurts. I like this," John explained, and gestured to the tree and Greg. "I love you, and I love Sherlock. I don't love Paul or Mycroft, but they are still not bad. I'm trying but he scares me. Sherlock just...I see Moriarty and Moran."

Greg cleared his throat and spoke softly, "John. Sherlock didn't ask you to stay for him because, as full of himself as he appears, he never believed he was worth your effort. He pushed at you because he was sure you were going to leave him, and he was treating it like a bandage, better off with a fast sharp pain than slow and drawn out." 

He couldn't help but remember the man in question, laid up in a gutter, needle still in his arm, sobbing against Greg's belly as they waited for an ambulance. "He's always hated himself, John. You...he didn't think he was worth staying for, so he was trying to give you other reasons, prove himself to you so that you would stay. He thought you were bored, and Africa had better things to offer you. The cases...that's all he thought he had." 

He blinked up at the sky, suddenly overwhelmed again with the weight of his responsibility. Love John enough to heal him, put him back with Sherlock, fade into the background. If he failed, both men died. If he succeeded, he would be alone. He exhaled roughly and raked a hand through his hair. 

"I know he messed up, John. Hell, _he_ knows he messed up. This isn't your fault, none of this is your fault. But it's not his either. Moriarty was at fault, and Sherlock put a bullet in his brain. I..." he cleared his throat again, feeling the color draining from his face. "Do you want to play cards again or...or watch a film?"

John had tears pouring down his face, but he didn't make a sound. "I'm an ass. I'm a stupid, ignorant ass and he shouldn't have ever put any faith in me. I..he told me, Moriarty, that I would hurt Sherlock and now I am. I can't even help him." 

John locked his mournful eyes with Greg and blinked slowly. "I don't want to do this to him. If I could, I'd stay with him. I'd stay with him and keep him from being sad. But I...I panic, and that hurts him even more than if I had stayed away, so it's confusing and I don't know what to do."

John was beginning to lose control. Made depressed by the amount of pain he had inflicted upon Sherlock, John curled in on himself and dug his fingers, still covered in dirt and grass, into his hair. "Tell him I'm sorry."

Greg reached forward and took John's hands in his own. "You don't have anything to be sorry for. I'm not telling you this to hurt you. I thought...if you knew...maybe it would help you feel safer. I'm not doing a very good job of helping you right now, am I?" He drew in a deep breath and stared at John, angry with himself for upsetting him after such a hard day. 

"I know you are trying, I know you are. This isn't...it's not your job to fix Sherlock. He's his own man and he did what he did knowing that there was a risk of this happening to him. I know this is confusing, John. I'm sorry. We can do something else right now, we don't have to think about Sherlock."

John could feel the dirt gritting against his scalp and the bit of grass now stuck in his hair. "I'm not supposed to leave because it would hurt him, and I don't want to hurt you, but you'll never just be okay with me leaving, will you?" John shook his head and answered his own question. "You said you would leave with me. I don't want to drive you to suicide. That means I can never leave. I can't-" A thought struck him suddenly, and he went still. He could leave. He wouldn't live forever. He would die some day, and it wouldn't be his fault. It would simply be time's call. One cannot conquer time. 

John turned his face to the sky and laughed then. He wouldn't have to carry on like this. Not forever, anyway. If he couldn't leave now, he'd just fly away on golden wings and wait for time to swift him away. 

"John," Greg breathed as John's words slammed into him like a freight train. Greg had spectacularly ruined the day. He watched in twisting fear as John began to laugh, something manic and terrible in the sound. Greg let his hand go and looked away for a moment, trying to get himself back under control. 

"God, I'm sorry, I'm sorry John. You've done so incredibly well today and I-" he stopped, tears burning at the corners of his eyes. He struggled to keep hold of them. "I...I don't want to trap you. I thought...I thought you...were..." he dragged in a deep breath and tried to slow down. "I'm...p-please John we can stop and just...I'm so sorry. You were happy and I-" he reached into his pocket with shaking fingers and drew out the pill bottle, tipping another into his hand and swallowing it dry in a desperate attempt to keep himself calm. "I'm sorry." 

John's laugh died in the air as suddenly as it had been breathed to life and John's expression fell back to dejected and depressed. It was several moments before he spoke again. "You shouldn't have pills without eating first. Have you eaten? You're losing weight. You should eat something. 

John had abandoned the idea of eating to make Greg happy for the time being. 

Greg watched it all crumble apart in front of him, water through his tightly pressed fingers, destroying what he'd tried so hard to build. John was back down, dejected and sad, and the only reason for that were Greg's own efforts to help. His gut twisted as his posture shifted, shoulders dropping as he looked away, ashamed of himself. 

"I'm fine," he said quietly, biting down hard on the inside of his cheek to keep himself from going to bits. "I'm...Christ, I'm sorry, John. I'm sorry."

John gave Greg an almost sympathetic look. "It's not your fault. I just...I get sad. It happens. I think that's the way it's going to be for me. But that's alright. I was happy before. You smiled at me, and you said I made you happy. Moriarty can't take that from me." John closed his tear-filled eyes and pictured Greg's face as he spoke, the sound of his voice and how genuine his laugh was. He repeated it over and over again to etch it deeper into his mind. 

"That is mine now, and he won't take it." 

Greg looked up at John for a moment before looking away, nodding. He held his tongue, afraid that anything he said in that moment was going to tip John over the edge. Greg moved so that his back was to the tree and raised his knees up in front of his chest, wrapping his arms loosely around his legs and resting his chin on his kneecaps. His heart weighed heavy, and for a moment he lost sight of the point. He was going to ruin this in the end, anyhow. John's extended pain was only excusable with a positive outcome. If he just ended up killing himself...

Greg swallowed hard and tipped his cheek to his knees, looking away from John as he pressed his eyes closed and tried to breathe. He was killing them...John and Sherlock...all with his incredible ability to fuck things sideways. He was losing them. 

He dragged a shaking hand across his cheek as he kept his head down, starting to very slightly rock himself without notice, his stomach in knots. 

John slowly crawled over and wrapped his arms around Greg. He wished to help, but didn't want to make things worse. Greg's happiness had made him happy in turn, and John attempted a smile. "It's okay. I mean, it's not...but...you're so good to me, and I need you to be here. I owe all of this to you." John planted a kiss to the top of Greg's head and laid his own head next to him. 

"We're both sad and broken. There isn't much to be done about that. But you...you can drink water, and eat food, and nobody has raped you, o-or done the needles... So it's Sherlock and I that are hurting you. I don't want to hurt you. I tried to be good and make today be a good day, but I got upset and talked about the wrong thing. I won't do it again. I swear." John tightened his grip on Greg. "I'm so sorry. Can we try and be happy again tomorrow? Please?"

Greg kept his eyes closed and endured John's words. He shifted when John asked about the next day, wrapping his arm around John and pulling him in close. 

"I know I've no right to be sad. I'm sorry. I've not endured anything like you or Sherlock. We'll...yeah tomorrow," he said roughly, spiraling down hard into self-loathing. 

John breathed a sigh of relief and kissed Greg's cheek. "Good. Then we'll be happy tomorrow. And I mean really happy. I'll have more water and you'll hug me and all of it." He settled down against Greg and closed his eyes. "I'll wake up early so there's more time to be happy."

Greg nodded, suddenly acutely aware of the cold. The enthusiasm of earlier no longer bolstered him against it and now he felt raw and exposed. 

"Do you want to go back in," he asked quietly, shifting slightly against John. He was dreading the morning, when the pressure would be intense. He'd not been handling pressure well at all, and he could not help but wonder how he was going to fuck everything up tomorrow. 

John shook his head. It was easier for him to feel safe in the open air, where there were no doors to watch anxiously. John had always preferred to seat himself close to the back of establishments, where he could see the door and have time to react to any possible threats. The doors were surrounding him now, but they were far away, and he had Greg. "No, I'd like to stay."

Greg nodded and let go of his legs, shifting so that he was more comfortable. He reached down and pulled the quilt up around them, trying to shelter from the chill. "Okay," he said quietly, utterly afraid to make any sort of move. He bit his cheek and focused on his breathing, knowing that he had to stay calm and even. Mycroft was pushed right up to the edge. There was no one else. Not for the first time, it was made clear how spectacularly inadequate he was. 

He leaned into John and spoke softly after a few minutes. "I'm trying, John. I swear I'm trying. I couldn't hold my family together,either. This is...this is my failing, not yours." 

"Oh," John muttered in a dejected sort of tone. "Greg...I know this is hurting you. I know it is. I want to help you, and I know that isn't my place, but I really, _really_ want to help you. I want to not be such a burden you...Greg, you aren't doing well. You look sick. You keep crying. I don't want to be the cause of that. If you need...God, I don't know. Whatever you need. Time away from me? Me to try harder? I know you need a meal. You need food, and rest, and to relax. I'm sorry. I'm sorry."

"Course it's your place," Greg said, shifting so that he could better see John. "You're my friend...right?" It suddenly occurred that perhaps, much like John held Sherlock in negative regard, he might just be… _I love Sherlock but he's not my friend._ The very idea of that drained all the heat out of his skin, washing him cold and making him feel incredibly small. 

"I mean...we...we used to be friends and..." he dragged in a deep breath and closed his eyes, shoving his shaking fingers under his thigh to hide them. 

"Of course we're friends," John almost scoffed as though it were obvious.

"You do all the things that friends do. You protect me, and we laugh together, and you stay with me even when we're sad or I'm being difficult." 

John wiggled himself under Greg's arm and quieted his own breathing. He had lots of information to process. Mainly; Sherlock loved him. _Loves_. He would have to think about how that effected things. 

Greg nodded and held John tighter as he closed his eyes, letting the wave of worry wash over him and riding it out. He did not speak, just allowing John to rest against him, ensuring John's over thin frame was well covered against the cold. He rest his own head back against the tree trunk and focused on the ringing in his ears, waiting for it to subside. Soon he'd have to attach the syringe to John's feeding tube, but for now he was just going to sit and try to come down from the near panic whispering along his mind. 

John muttered his thanks and let his mind sweep broadly over the idea that Sherlock loved him. He was tempted to ask _how_ , but decided to save that for a better day.

John ended up dropping off to sleep rather quickly. He was exhausted, both from the unpleasant stress of eating and drinking, and the pleasant exercise he got walking around the courtyard with Greg. 

Greg waited several minutes after John was asleep before he allowed himself a few minutes to break down and cry. He was terrified for John. How was he supposed to thrive when there was only Greg to shoulder on? He was slipping. It was becoming more and more difficult to withstand failure, the price of it too steep. He pressed his free hand over his eyes and allowed himself the time to get it out of his system. 

He'd pushed the water too hard. He'd pushed the food too hard. He'd pushed the issue of Sherlock too hard. He wanted to crawl under a rock and just stay there until his heart stopped. "I'm sorry," he hardly breathed, just needing to say it out loud again, even though John was down. He had to pair John and Sherlock back, and quick, before he lost the ability to function any longer. John's reminder that Greg had not been tortured, and therefore should not feel pain, had been devastating. He'd already loathed himself for his weakness, and now John did as well. 

Eventually he dropped off to sleep himself, one arm tight around John, the other tucked over his own heart. 

John woke to dreams that he couldn't quite shake three times, and each time he found that he was safe, that Greg had him, and that they were away from anyone who might hurt them. 

Each time John nestled back into Greg and dropped back to sleep, but the last time he stayed awake. He pulled the blanket over Greg's shoulders better and bunched a bit behind his head so his neck wouldn't be sore in the morning. John curled up with his head on Greg's lap like a cat and drifted off again, not to wake up for several hours. 

Greg woke back up slowly, finding it alarmingly dark outside. He reached down swiftly, pressing his fingers to the side of John's neck and exhaling in relief at the steady pulse there. It was much colder than earlier, and he realized with a start that he'd not given John a feeding at all that day. 

He swore and shifted, lightly squeezing John's shoulder. "John," he whispered, shaking his head, "John can you wake up for me?"

John awoke to the feeling of hunger. His eyes flew open and he pressed his hand over his mouth instinctively before realizing that it was only Greg, and Greg wouldn't hurt him. "It's dark," he commented and stretched his stiff legs. 

"Yeah, we should go in. You've not had anything in your stomach today and this quilt isn't really helping anymore." He was stiff from his position and worried over John's lack of food and mediation. 

"I don't want you to start hurting, you've gone a while without your pain meds." 

"I'm not that bad," John commented and moved his hands. They were a bit sore and stiff, as were his legs, but his wrist was alright and he wasn't in much pain. "I'm okay. Will you help me up?"

Greg helped John up, using enough of his own strength that John hardly had to give any effort at all. He pulled him to his chest and then, after a long hug, moved him to stand in the grass while he gathered up their things.  
"I carried you out here, so if you need help back in just let me know," Greg said as he slung the pack on his back and wrapped an arm around John. 

John was a bit unstable on his feet, and his ankles were terribly sore, but he managed a few steps before he turned to Greg. 

"Could you help me? I don't need to be carried, I don't think. Just a bit stiff." 

He felt a more clarity in his mind, even if he was a bit hungry. "I feel okay," John stated, but cast a nervous glance around the courtyard. 

Greg pulled John close to his side, wrapping an arm around John's hip. "Lean on me," he whispered as he helped John inside, past security and to their room.

John no longer wanted to be touched while sedated, which left a serious problem. "John," he began as he gathered John's pills and handed them over, "eh...you're going...going to need a wash at some point."

John seemed to stiffen when confronted with the idea of a wash. "They're going to touch me," he muttered in a resigned voice, as if it was a fate he couldn't avoid. 

"I don't like being touched. I don't. I don't want to be touched unless I say it's alright. We can...I can work on the water. Maybe I can do it myself." He shook his head after the words left him. Ridiculous. 

Greg began to shake his head the moment John stayed talking. "No, no John, no one is going to touch you. I promised not to let them touch you. But that means we have to find another way to get you washed up. I've....I can do it or...it's just wet cloths, John, you don't have to get in the bath."

He kept as calm and quiet as he could, keeping his eyes on John all the while.

John's hand flew over his mouth and he suppressed a gag. "I-I don't...I don't like wet cloths... Just, I could... Maybe a sponge? Is that okay? I could try it." John removed his hand and clasped them together. 

"I d-don't want to do this. God, I hate water. I hate water. But I-I don't want to be touched. Would you m-make sure they don't sedate me? God, I don't want that. I don't want it. I can...I can work on the water." John was very used to being confronted with two painful options and choosing the lesser. It had been a regular practice. Eye, or arm? Tongue, or hand? Rape, or torture? 

"I choose water."

Greg nodded, trying to steady John. He's forgotten that wet cloths were often used in waterboarding. "I'm sorry, John. No cloths, no cloths. I'll get you a sponge. I will not let anyone sedate you. No one will touch you unless you ask."

Greg stood and went to the door, along a guard to find him a soft done for bathing. He went back to join and sat down next to him, opening his arms. "Can I hold you a minute?"

John nodded and wrapped his arms around Greg. "This is going to hurt. It's going to hurt so much." The sky was still dark, but John could tell it was going to melt soon. They had spent most of the night curled against the tree, and dawn would thaw the darkness soon. "But I don't want to be sedated."

Greg held him tight and shook his head. "It might not hurt, love, it might not. It won't be water running down your skin, just a soft sponge a little warm and damp. You are going to be alright. Why don't we give you your anxiety medication and I will push a feed so that you feel warm, and then we will try, yeah? It will be alright." 

He stood up and got John's anxiety medication, tipping four out and handing them over before getting a feed mix together. John was slowly starting to soften up at the harsh edges of his knees and elbows, and the spaces between his ribs were far less pronounced. He was severely underfed, but he no longer appeared skeletal. The higher caloric intake nearly around the clock was helping immensely. "Let me see your hand, John. Going to get you hydrated, let's hook you up." 

John handed over his arm and gave a small sigh. "It's going to hurt in my mind. It's going to hurt there and I'll panic and you'll be sad and-" John dropped his head into his hand and pressed his eyes with the pads of his fingers. Just the idea of water was starting to upset him. 

"I l-love you, a-and you said that when I do things that scare me anyway because I love you.It makes you happy. I want to make you happy. I want to do this because then you'll not be sad anymore. But...If I panic, it will make you more sad. I don't want that. I don't know what I am supposed to do."

Greg closed his eyes for a moment before looking back down at the line he was running for John, full of saline and electrolytes. "I won't be sad if you panic, John. I won't. It's going to be alright, and I'll be right here if you want me to stay. I'm sorry I've confused you so badly, I did not mean to. There is no way around this one, sadly. If you don't want to be sedated and touched by anyone then you have to keep yourself clean. If there was another way for now, I'd gladly let you do it." 

John hadn't believed himself to be confused, and he frowned at his hands. "You become sad when I panic...and happy when I do good. But to do good, I have to panic, and-and-" John took a deep breath in for as long as he could, then out for twice as long. He watched the clock for a moment, craving the consistency of it. "I'm not going to like this. Not at all."

Greg sat down beside him, only to get right back up as someone knocked on the door. Paul stood there with a box, offering it to Greg. "Softest natural sponge I could find, infant wash so nothing stings his eyes, a bathrobe, and several towels. Let me know if you need me, I'm going to sit right here outside the door." 

With a nod, Greg turned and walked back to John, hearing the door close behind him. He sat down and handed John the dry sponge for him to hold. "There is a robe in here. I can step out while you change into it, if you want. Just...get used to the sponge while it's dry. Maybe that will help a bit. I can...I can help you do this, John. If that would be easier, I can do this for you."

John held the sponge in his hands. It was just a normal sponge, soft, of natural colors and as non-threatening as a thing could be. John turned it over, brushed it over his arms, and even put it to his face. It didn't frighten him at all. 

"This is alright," John stated and held up the sponge. "It's just a sponge." He had expected to be irrationally terrified of it, and was greatly relieved it was just a commonplace object. 

"I'm keeping my clothes on," John snapped and his eyes darted to the door, where Paul had said he would be. "I'll just...I'll do it on my arm first."

Greg got up from the bed and walked into the bathroom, running the sink tap lukewarm and filling the bowl for John. He set the bowl on a towel next to him and took the sponge away, gently pressing it into the water and then wringing it out so well that it was hardly damp It was mildly warm, nowhere close to hot, when he held it out for John to take. 

John closed his eyes and covered his ears to avoid hearing the water splashing around in the container. The water-boarding had been, by far, the most stressful, but boiling water was more painful. John reached for it as one would reach into the mouth of a rabid dog and his whole body leaned away in protest. 

John hissed when he took it, which was a failed attempt at a steady exhale. "I'm alright. I'm alright. I can do this. Its just a sponge. I touched the sponge before. It's okay. Greg, it's okay, isn't it? This is alright?"

"It's perfectly okay," Greg answered swiftly, staying exactly where he was, worried over upsetting John. "You are alright. You control that sponge, no one else. You are alright." He was incredibly glad that John had just had both his morphine and his anxiety medications before this, as well as a full feeding and was still getting fluids through the drip. "You are doing really well, John. Really well"

John waved the sponge around and tested his control. He could move it up, down, left, right, closer, further, and though he didn't test it, he was sure he would be able to throw it. Instead of simply putting it onto his arm, he switched hands, passed it back and forth, slowly desensitizing himself to the idea of it touching his skin. 

John moved the sponge down to his wrist, then back to his hand. Then a bit further, then back. He repeated the process for several minutes and made tiny laps until he had washed the inside of his forearm on the left side. "Don't like this," he muttered, but was still concentrating rather hard. 

"I know you don't," Greg responded gently. "I think you're doing very well. I'm right here." He tipped a bit of the infant wash into the bowl and waited another moment before whispering, "here, let me get a bit more on there for you, just the same as before, okay?" 

John was glad to be rid of the sponge, even if it wasn't particularly painful. It was still water, but in this form it wasn't too frightening. "I'm sorry," John stammered as a default, "Trying. I'm trying." 

Greg quietly went about wetting the sponge, trying to wring it out with as little noise as possible. He leaned over and kissed John's temple. "You are brilliant. It's all okay. I won't get upset if you have trouble. I love you." 

He offered the sponge back and broke contact. "I'm not touching you because I don't want to frighten you. If you want me to hold your hand, I will."

John took the sponge back and held it in his hands again. The water formed small drops at the very bottom, which he did his best to ignore. As much as John wanted Greg with him, and as much as he had forgiven him for the incident with the shower, John declined his protector's offer. 

"It's alright," he said in a strained voice. "I can do this. I can." He started once more with his hands and passed the sponge back and forth a few times before he started on his palms and wrists. 

Without truly knowing why, John put the sponge in one hand and rolled up his trouser leg in the other. There was a blotchy scar on his shin that started in one mass and dissipated towards the edges in lines. It was a burn mark, clearly made while he was lying down, as the water had run off the edges of his calf. John made eye contact with Greg for a moment, as if to say; _this is why I am afraid._

Greg's gut twisted and he reached out without thinking, very gently covering as much of the massive scar as he could with his palm. "Never, ever again. Never again. This will never happen again. I love you, I'm so sorry this was done to you."

"If you cover a scar with a bigger scar, it's almost like the first one goes away." John was almost speaking into the sponge as he stared at it. The water was just warm enough to feel warmer than his skin, and therefore was quite comfortable. He brought it back up the inside of his arm, slowly making progress up his wrist and forearm. It was terrifying, but not quite as bad as having water in his mouth. 

Greg closed his eyes, keeping his hand over the scar as though he could protect him from him from the pain of it. "You are incredibly brave, John. I love you."

"Love you too," John replied in a tight voice and continued to gently sponge his arm. It was when he had done his entire forearm and started on the other that the gnawing panic began to creep up on him. He called to mind the decision he had narrowed it down to previously as fuel. It's either this, or the touching. 

With renewed fervor but a pained grimace, John worked the sponge over his other arm. When he was finished he dropped the sponge onto the bed and held out his arms for Greg to see. It was scaring him to keep them wet and he urged to bury them in the sheets to be dried, but he wanted Greg to see what he had done.

Greg picked up a towel and covered John's arms, drying them and setting the towel aside. "No more tonight. You are so brave, and you just worked so hard, and I am so happy."

He held an arm open, wanting to hold him. "No more tonight."

John's heart almost burst with affection for Greg when the man dried his arms, complimented his effort, and permitted him to be finished. 

" _Oh_ , thank you," he cried and hugged him tight. It was a real, proper hug, not the terrified clinging he usually resorted to. "Thank you."

Greg held John close, posing a kids to the top of John's head. "I love you. We will get through this one step at a time." He hugged John close and began to gently rock them.

John was glad to have the water off his arms, but knew it would be coming back soon. He couldn't just wash his arms. He'd need to out water over the scalding scar on his leg, and need to undress so he could wash. It didn't sound pleasant at all. "How much longer will this take?"

Greg shook his head, "how long will what take?" He ran his fingers through John's hair. "You don't have to do anything else tonight. Is your medicine helping at all, can you feel it?"

John gave a small nod and cuddled against Greg. "How long will all...this," he gestured around the room, "take? All the hurting and the tasks and the pain. I want to go home, I think. I want my old life back."

Greg nodded, finally understanding. "I don't think we will be here much longer. I'll take you home as soon as it's safe, maybe a week or two more."

John's jaw dropped. "A week? A week? Oh, god. I get to leave." John was staring straight at the opposite wall, eyes blown wide. A week hardly seemed like anything in comparison to the time he had spent in both captivity and rehabilitation. "That's...it's been more than a year."

Greg nodded, heart breaking for the poor man. "We are only still here to keep you safe from Moran. When he is dead or in custody I'll take you back to Baker Street or to my flat, wherever you want to go. You're not a captive, John."

He eased back and stood up, swiftly taking the bowl of water away and turning as quick as he could. "Do you want to lie down?"

John nodded and reached out for Greg to lie down with him. "I'm not sure if I want to be here anymore, but I'm scared. God, I'm scared. I really don't want to be taken again. I don't want to go back. What if he's hired someone or trained someone?" 

Greg laid down with John, pulling him into his arms and wrapping the blankets around them. "Won't happen. You will not be alone and Mycroft will assign security."

He held John tight. "I love you, I'll keep you safe."

"I know you will, Greg. I love you, alright? I really do." John looked to him, eyes wide and full of honesty. "So you shouldn't be so hard on yourself. I'm sorry. I really, honestly love you."

Greg smiled at him and but at his lip, swallowing and dropping his eyes away. "You are too important for mistakes," he whispered, squeezing John gently, "you hurt so much that...I...it's nearly impossible to forgive myself when..."

He dragged in a deep breath and cleared his throat, "I never want you to hurt, never. When I hurt you, I should feel pain too."

John looked up at Greg and promptly shook his head. He curled himself around the man and ran his fingers back through his hair. "You never deserve pain. NEVER. Not ever. Don't say that. Don't ever say that. When you make a mistake, you aren't really hurting me. Not on purpose; it's not your fault. I'm fragile and broken. It's not your fault."

Greg shook his head and pulled John in close. "I don't do it on purpose. I...I just..." He held John tight, "I love you, I'm trying John. I promise."

John shut his eyes and let out a mournful sigh. "No, that's not the point. The point is that you're the best thing in my life. I don't care if you make a little mistake. Honestly..." John carded his fingers through Greg's hair. "I don't remember things sometimes. Often, really. I just like it when you are happy, and if you are sad I can tell. I love you. If you make a mistake I'll forgive you."

Greg closed his eyes at that, swallowing and going quiet as he thought of the weeks...hours and hours, days and nights, twisting in agony when John refused to see him.

"Okay," he whispered, "I'll...I'll keep that in mind." He went quiet again for several moments before whispering, "you...you're the best thing in my life too, John."

John grabbed hold of Greg's shirt and nestled into his chest. "I make you sad a lot. I know I also make you happy, and you like being with me, but I make you so sad." 

Greg shook his head, "No John....no. you don't make me sad. It...I get sad when I see you hurting. It's not you, it's never you. You make me very happy. I love you."

He wrapped up with John in the same way John wrapped up with him. "You make me happy."

"No, I make you happy when I am happy. My sadness makes you sad, and when you are sad, so am I. It's a perpetual cycle! You just...when you were happy, I was happy, let me do things to make you proud. Please. Please let me make you happy. Give me tasks." 

Greg closed his eyes, steeped in guilt. "I don't want you to think I'm like them...that I'm training you or...I can't bear it when you are afraid of me and I don't ever want to give you a reason. I already...I nearly lost you. I did lose you for a time and....I...I don't want to make you afraid or make you feel manipulated."

"You aren't training me!" John shouted suddenly, sitting up but keeping hold of Greg. "You are giving me a purpose! I can't-" his voice cracked and he exhaled sharply. "I can't do this on my own. I can't just do this for myself. If I can do things to make you happy, then I'll stay alive. I know you want me to have a purpose for myself, but I just...I just _can't._ " 

John's eyes were filled with tears and he held fast to Greg's shirt. "He took that from me. Maybe someday I'll be able to live for my own purpose, but right now...." He gave Greg a despairing look and shook his head. "I need to make you happy. It's not training it's...I just need a reason to live, Greg. Please, don't take that from me."

Greg sat up swiftly, horrified with John's words. "I....oh good, John...okay, I...I won't, I didn't mean..." He trailed off, no idea how to move forward. "I am sorry, I never know.. I never know what will hurt, I...if that's what you need I'll do it...I will...I...please, John I'm sorry I..." 

He was breathing too fast, nearly choking on his effort to fix his latest mistake, "g-god I'm sorry ....I'm sorry I didn't mean...okay John , that's...well do that."

John was, once again, dismayed that he had hurt Greg. It upset him, but he seemed to always be doing that each time he tried to explain something. Perhaps he just shouldn't try, and just live with whatever they gave him. 

"I don't my want to hurt you. I truly don't. But I need a reason to keep doing this. I don't see it as training. Isn't everything, though? My old training said that if I spoke, I would be hurt. My new training then said that if I spoke, I would not be hurt. Is training really such a bad thing? And if so, is it avoidable? I don't really think so. I...god, I shouldn't talk. I'll shut up."

Greg shook his head, "No, please don't stop talking to me, I want to hear you. You were right, I'm weak, I've not been through anything close to what you have. I...I have never struggled like this, it's not you. Please John it's not you."

Greg pushed John back enough to look him in the face, "it helps to hear your thoughts. Please talk to me. I...if tasks help I'll give them. Please don't stop telling me what you need."

John took several moments to collect his thoughts. It was only when his words were rehearsed, planned, and his thoughts stood in order like toy soldiers that he spoke. This was no time for childish sentences and blanket terms.

"I require training to override my previous training. The previous training is buried deep with pain and fear and trauma. I need constant repetition and reassurance that I am doing things correctly to wear that down. Everything is training. It's not bad to be trained. Humans are trained. You smell food and your stomach grumbles. It's normal. But this sort of training is painful, because it's ripping up pain with roots buried deep. I can't be in pain and fear all the time. You-" 

John stopped for several minutes, eyes squeezed shut and hands in trembling fists. "It hurts...it is difficult to speak clearly and I've no idea why. I need to laugh. I can't do this for myself. Let me do this for you, and I'll do better. I do these things, the water and the speaking right and the food, because I want you to be pleased with me." John's face was a bit red and he held his breath in order to concentrate more fully on his articulation. 

Greg nodded, nearly drowning in self hatred. "Then that's what we will...what I will do. I'm sorry you had to spell it out. I'll...I'll give you tasks..."

He went quiet, still and silent as he thought on the pain he inflicted on John wIth his requests already. "I won't keep" he dragged in a desperate breath, forcing himself to calm down. He had no right to be as distraught as he felt. If John could be rational, then he would maintain until Sherlock could take over, and then a bullet would make it quiet. He cleared his throat, nodding.

"Okay, John. That's very logical and that's what we'll do."

John nearly fell to pieces with relief when it was over. His mind was a rubber band and each moment of this forced clarity was stretching the ends further and further apart. They snapped together when he released, and his posture slouched.

"Okay… _thank you_ , Greg. I just wanted...I just wanted a chance to make you happy." He scooted down just a bit so he could rest his head against Greg's chest. "I'm going to sleep now, alright?" 

Greg nodded, "Yeah, John...yeah John go to sleep. I've got you."

He held John tight, pulling the blankets up high on John's shoulders.

Greg held tight to John and was soon falling down into sleep with him as well. The night outside had not been been restful, and the new weight of guilt was too much at the moment. Even John could manage to be objective while he personally was falling apart. 

That he'd made John spell out for him what he needed...."I'm sorry," he whispered as heavy darkness whispered over his mind. John deserved so much better than him. He slowly went limp as he resolved to push John hard back to Sherlock.


	4. Rust

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for graphic depictions

While John was sleeping in Greg's arms, exhausted and dejected, Mycroft was waking up from a short repose on Sherlock's bed. His brother, broken, bruised and abused, seemed a hopeless cause. Mycroft reminded himself that he was in the thick of things and an objective view was difficult. He would have to wait until Sherlock was physically healed to judge his mental state. 

Dr. Miller walked into the room, carrying medication for Sherlock and a cup of hot tea for Mycroft. Sherlock was just beginning to stir, fingers twitching as his breathing slowly quickened.

"I'm giving him something to keep him calm. Can I get you anything? Breakfast is on its way for you."

Mycroft had an intense hunger and thirst that combined with a pounding headache to make him quite miserable. "Thank you. I hope he will be lucid for a bit today. What is his anticipated pain level?"

Miller began pushing Sherlock's medication, watching his vitals shifting as Sherlock began to wake. "He should be alright, uncomfortable, of course, but as long as he isn't struggling he should be managed. Do you need anything?"

Mycroft shook his head and held Sherlock close to him. He wished for his little brother to wake up feeling safe and loved. The bandages under Mycroft's hand gave him a strange sense of disconnection, and he sought for a patch of undamaged skin to rest his hand on.

Miller left the room just as Sherlock began to shift, instinctually leaning into his brother. He drew in a deep breath as his eyes opened, a spike of fear cutting across his chest as he recalled the terror he'd felt going to sleep.

"M-My?"

Mycroft immediately touched Sherlock's face affectionately. "Yes, it's Mycroft, it's My. I'm here. Right here." 

Sherlock nodded against his brother, pinching his eyes closed and trying to remember.

"Your...your facility...John down the hall...I'm...I've been...I'm injured and..." He suddenly recalled dragging the scalpel across his throat. 

"How am I still..."

"You were saved by the doctors. You missed the artery and couldn't go deep enough to do too much damage." Mycroft continued to stroke Sherlock's hair. 

"It's alright, now."

Sherlock was quiet fit a few minutes, eyes closed and keeping as close to Mycroft as possible. "I-"  
He was cut off as the door opened. Sherlock's entire body locked up tight, shuddering as he all but whimpered in distress, clutching at Mycroft as his heart rate soared.

A man set a tray down beside the bed with food and a few tablets of paracetamol for the elder Holmes. He left without speaking, closing the door and leaving the men to themselves.

Mycroft held Sherlock a bit tighter when the man walked in. He didn't know how Sherlock would react to the intrusion. 

"Sherlock, it's okay. The next few weeks are going to be very difficult, but I'm going to stay with you and make sure you are safe."

Sherlock shivered and drew back slightly so that he could see his brother. "You c-cannot spare that sort of time," he whispered, looking at his brother before looking away. He blinked as a tear rolled down his cheek. 

"Please eat," he murmured sadly.

Mycroft took the tray of food and put it on the edge of the bed. "I can spare the time while Moran is free. I work with idiots who follow me blindly." Mycroft spoke quietly and began to eat. 

"I'll stay with you as long as you need." 

Sherlock held quiet, shifting and assessing himself. His entire body was stiff and soaked in muffled pain. 

"Is John...is he...how is John?"

Mycroft started feeling better once he ate. 

"John is doing so well. He was walking around the other day, and I was informed that he attempted bathing himself with water." 

Sherlock closed his eyes as he recalled why John would be struggling so. He was quiet as Mycroft ate, letting him get through the meal before he spoke.

"They waterboarded him...nearly every day." He swallowed as he recalled the feeling. "Logically...it is clear you won't drown. There is no reason to fear...but then. .burns as it runs down the throat...the cloth...it's...indescribably terrifying."

"Yes...I am aware of his waterboarding. It triggers the same reaction as if you are drowning. Logic and fear are opposites that can not exist together. But he drank water and used a sponge." Mycroft had a list of topics that he wanted to avoid, but needed information on. "We have tapes of his capture. There is a therapist working on helping him function."

Sherlock was quiet for a few more moments before he spoke again, face to the ceiling, detached in his tone.

"They burned him...boiled water and..." He closed his eyes as his stomach turned, remembering the pain of it. "I don't know how he's still...still..."

Mycroft dreaded Sherlock's detached tone. "I know, Sherlock. I know. He was hurt terribly, and you watched it on tapes. If you ever need to talk about what happened, I am here. Also, if you need anything -water, I can get you water- just ask."

"Have you watched my tapes," he breathed in question. His fingers twitched and his heart rate elevated sharply. "I hardly think so...you'd not...not be willing to tolerate my company..." He trailed off, voice fading down to nearly nothing.

"I haven't watched your tapes." Mycroft said hastily. "I consider it an invasion of privacy. I haven't let anyone watch them. If you think I should, as to better educate me on how to help you, I will. No matter what happens, I will be here for you."

Sherlock shrugged, detached, starting at the ceiling. "Much of...much of John's...just...just not..."

He slowly turned his eyes to his brother. Sherlock took a moment to stare at him, observing. "How l-long until you give up your hope?"

"Hope is a construct of our prediction of the outcome and our own personal beliefs." 

Mycroft was getting more and more anxious about Sherlock's detached state. "But I don't intend on losing hope. I have the means to keep you well provided for, and John will be functioning properly soon."

Sherlock stared at him without reacting, other than to blink at him before looking back to the ceiling. He remained quiet for a length of time he'd lost the ability to track.

"So you've already abandoned it." He closed his eyes and nodded once before taking a deep breath and looking back at the ceiling.

"I've not abandoned hope, Sherlock. I've got all my resources flooded into helping you and John." Mycroft sat up a bit so he was more in Sherlock's line of sight. 

"Listen, Sherlock, I am going to make sure you are alright. I couldn't break you out in time, and putting you and John back together is the only way I can see to rectify that."

Sherlock did not respond for a long time. "This is not your fault," he said without inflection. He licked his lip, thirsty and in deep, aching pain.

"John...it is...unsalvageable. He...I...he is lost to me. Don't....give me the idea that he loves me. Might have done at one time...m-might want to...but...Moran...Moran raped him with my voice above him. He- that sort...of...how could he recover from...from that?"

Mycroft covered his eyes with his fingers for a moment and pressed. It was clear that John was trying, but closeness to Sherlock made him uncomfortable. Now it was clear why. "He isn't going to be the same. I don't expect that. I do, however, expect that he will be able to live with you comfortably."

"Okay," he whispered, closing his eyes again and going quiet. The monitors tracked his vitals, blipping in time with his heart. He closed his eyes and kept very still until, nearly half an hour later, tears began to slowly slide down his face.  
"Sherlock?" Mycroft asked gently and pulled the man a bit closer on his chest. "If you need to talk about anything, I am here. Also, John is always available to text or video message." Mycroft was hesitant to say 'call' as a disembodied voice of the other might cause them to panic. 

Sherlock opened his eyes and turned his head to look at his brother. He opened his mouth to speak before his chin suddenly wobbled and he abruptly broke down, his face falling with grief. He dragged a shaking hand up to his eyes, shoulders catching as he began to cry.

"That's alright," Mycroft spoke quietly and held his brother. "It's alright. All is not lost. John is alive, growing stronger, and you will be together again." It sounded grossly sentimental, but that was what this situation required.

Sherlock turned his face to his brother, crying out his pain. "It was...I n-never...knew pain...h-horrible I...He n-never stopped..." He shook his head as he nearly gagged with the memories of it all. "I never knew p-pain could be l-like that...thought...m-men who broke under...under...t-t-t-torture were weak...I...it was h-horrific..."

"Men who break under torture are not weak. If they don't break, the torturer doesn't know what they are doing. You are so strong. Most men would have broken mentally. Most wouldn't be this logical. You've a very strong mind, Sherlock." Mycroft held his little 'Lock and let his eyes slide shut. This was very difficult.

Sherlock wept for the better of twenty minutes before he was able to get himself back under control. Slowly his breathing steadied out, only occasionally hitching as he turned away from Mycroft, reaching to his neck and brushing his fingertips over the bandaging. 

"It...it will n-never stop. I cannot m-move anything without...w-without.... _I feel him everywhere_ ," he finally groaned, gagging and swiftly growing pale. "I'm r-ruined, My. I've b-been ruined." 

"You will stop feeling him. I swear. You will stop feeling him after a while. It will go away." Mycroft hadn't ever been particularly good at dealing with emotions. He hadn't rejected them bitterly, nor floundered about when the subject was approached, but did, in general, avoid them. This was becoming taxing. 

Sherlock drew away from his brother, gut twisting up in pointed humiliation. He turned his face away as he kept his fingers to his neck, seriously debating tearing into the stitching and letting himself go. Swiftly he began to withdraw into his mind, shuddering as he put as much distance as possible between himself and reality. He'd irritated his brother and lost John, he no longer possessed the ability to care for himself or function. Sherlock was no longer unique, no longer important now that his ability to serve a purpose was bled out on a rusty table, carved out of him with dull blades and sharp spikes. 

He flung the door to his mind palace open, shivering harshly at the fetted, rotting quality of the place he'd held so dear. His eyes began to glass over as he slammed the splintered wood shut behind him and dropped down to the sodden floorboards, screaming into the darkness.

Mycroft gave Sherlock a light shake. "It's alright, Sherlock. Please. Don't retreat. You can rebuild your mind palace, but do not hide in it. Can you hear me? Repair, do not retreat. I know it is asking a lot of you, but you need to do it for John." Mycroft was going to play the John Card until it ceased to work.

_Sherlock scraped himself up off the floor and moved slowly, one hand braced against the dank wall, feeling the ruins of the wallpaper. He came to a stop at the massive staircase. Up or down, it did not seem to matter. It was impenetrably dark in either direction, cold air wafting up the case from below, creaking and moaning of shifting foundation from above. A thrill of fear ran down his spine as he grabbed the pealing rails, leaning forward and shouting up into the black, "JOHN!"_

_The following silence squeezed around his heart, "MOLLY! ANDERSON!" He shook his hands on the railing and tipped his forehead down to the wood, starting to cry. He slowly rolled his head on the crunching paint chips and dragged in a desperate breath. "REDBEARD!"_

_His lungs seized up in the answering silence and he eased down to the floor, leaning against the cracking banister with his face in his hands, breaking down like a child, shouting his grief without hope._

Outwardly, his eyelids fluttered as a tear rolled down his face. The monitors picked up the changes in his heart rate and breathing, and he curled his fingers viciously into his neck reflexively in his torment. 

"No, Sherlock, stop it!" Mycroft pulled Sherlock's hand away from his throat and held it tightly in his own. "I am here! I am right here and you are safe!" Mycroft didn't know what sort of torment the man was in within the confines of his own mind, but it appeared very stressful. 

Mycroft was at a loss for what to do and took Sherlock's face in his hands. "Sherlock, please. I am right here. It's MYCROFT!"

_Sherlock forced himself to move after a period of time he could not judge, standing up and collecting his bearings. He struggled to remember how the place had been before, recalling a desk he kept not far from the door. He moved forward, hands shaking terribly as he got to the drawer and pulled it open, hearing a torch roll on the wood. His hand wrapped around the small handle and he clicked the button in hopes of activating the light._

_It shattered against the wall as he threw it in rage, still saturated in darkness, alone in the ruins of his mind._

In his sick room, his eyes nearly closed, half-lidded and glassy, his breathing ragged. Miller finally came in, no longer able to ignore the worrying trend on the monitors which he was watching remotely. "Mycroft?" He called out quietly, surprised to find the men calm. 

"He isn't responding," Mycroft called without looking over. He continued in his efforts to rouse Sherlock out of his severe pensive state. 

"Hey, Sherlock. SHERLOCK. It's MYCROFT. Please, I need you to look at me." Mycroft tapped the message out in morse code, repeated it in French in the same tapping but spoke in Latin. "Please, Sherlock. Wake up."

Miller frowned as he walked over, lifting one of Sherlock's eyelids and checking the reaction. He shook his head, giving him a quick lookover. 

"This isn't medical," he said confidently after a moment. "He's neurologically sound, pupils are reactive, he's not in a coma. This...I could page Paul in if you'd like. This looks psychological to me, not my most skilled field I'm afraid." 

"It's psychological. He is in his mind palace, most likely. Call Paul. He's better at this than I." Mycroft decided that he would have to study psychology on a free sunday sometime soon. Still, the man would have more experience. He was a goldfish, but an experienced one. 

"Sherlock, please. Just...just squeeze my hand."

_Sherlock pulled the door open to give himself light, and sat with his back against the wall, hearing at a distance the familiar rhythmic beeping of his heart monitor and the low rumbling of voices. He had his hands wrapped around his knees, staring at the ruins of his front entryway in the stip of light the open door exposed. Everything...every single bit of furnishing...the walls and floor...the drapes and rugs, were all soaked or molding, torn and scorched black in places. The acrid smell of stagnant water layered over the smoke._

_"Redbeard!"_

_His shout echoed through the darkness as he held his breath, hoping against hope that this time his beautiful Setter would respond. He strained his ears for the sound of paws on the stairs, waiting...waiting…_

Paul entered the room forty minutes after being called, hair still damp from the shower he'd been interrupted from, irritated with his trip through security that had delayed him. He picked up a chair and walked over, sitting down beside Sherlock and looking to Mycroft. "What happened?"

Sherlock wept quietly, repeating the dog's name again and again under his breath as he sharply mourned the loss. There was only his grief and the silence, mixing with the external noises from reality that he'd been desperate to escape. Absently he began to wonder what would happen if he tried to kill himself there, if he were to make it to the top of the stairs and jump...would it stop his body as well? He could not tolerate the idea of leaving his brother to handle a vegetable. 

It would be horribly cruel. 

Mycroft held the back of Sherlock's head slightly off the pillow and stared directly into his glassy eyes. 

"He just retreated. He's likely in his mind palace. Nothing particularly stressful happened, I believe he just...he's been whispering the name of his old dog, Redbeard. He was devastated when he died. It was his only friend at the time, and was his first experience with loss. Sherlock believes he has lost John, which is likely why it was recalled to mind. Perhaps like reopening an old wound."

Mycroft was still trying to wake Sherlock with light touches and loud words. "Sherlock, it's Mycroft!"

_Sherlock could no longer tolerate the devastation in his mind, slowly standing up and sweeping his eyes over the wreckage one last time. The boards under his feet creaked as he forced himself to follow Mycroft's voice._  
Slowly his eyes began to focus, the pupils shrinking as he sharpened the blurred face of his brother. He stated up at him, quiet for several minutes before he posted his lips and breathed, "Everyone is gone...it's...ruins...there's nothing...nothing left."

Mycroft exhaled sharply when Sherlock began to filter back up. "It's alright," he said in a voice both loud and gentle, "You'll get it back. You'll have it again. All you need is to come back to me for now. Just come back. I'm here to keep you safe. Just come back to me."

Sherlock stared at his brother for another moment before closing his eyes as his heart raced. "I...I...what is left? My mind is...and John...and th-the work...what is there left? Why k-keep me safe? Why? What value c-could I possibly hold now?" 

Paul leaned back, quiet as he watched the brothers interacting. 

"You will have the work again, and if not, you will have John. Perhaps both. Your mind will heal with time, and I still intend on keeping you safe because, believe it or not, you have value that is not simply measured by how useful you are." Mycroft helped Sherlock cross one arm across his chest. 

Paul watched as Sherlock's hand closest to him began to shake. "Sherlock," he said quietly from the corner, "I agree with your brother, the damage is likely temporary. You are very freshly recovered, give yourself a bit of time." 

Sherlock cracked a harsh, empty laugh and turned his face to Mycroft. "I cannot see a...I cannot see the possibility of...it hurts, it is all so deeply...I've l-lost everything." 

Mycroft shook his head. "No, Sherlock. You haven't lost everything. John is alive and wants to help you. You've got Greg, Molly, Mrs. Hudson and me. Would it make you happy to live with John for the rest of your life?"

"Please don't," Sherlock whispered, pressing his palm to his eyes. "I'd...of c-course I be happy with...but he...there is n-no way that..." he drew in a shaking breath and bit hard on the inside of his lip, mauling the flesh in an effort to draw blood. 

"You do not u-understand...John...John associates me with...I w-was hoping that somehow it was not r-real. He is s-so angry with me th-that he t-told them to..." his words split over a sob and he choked, shaking his head and pressing a hand to the side of his neck, digging his fingers harsh into the wound, anything to feel some other sort of pain that what wrapped so tight around his chest, seizing the breath in his lungs. 

Mycroft pulled Sherlock's hand away and held it to his chest. "No, Sherlock, no. John isn't angry with you. John is afraid at times, or confused, but his anger isn't directed at you." 

Which was true consciously, but Mycroft believed that subconsciously John would end up harboring some amount of resentment towards Sherlock, be it knowingly or unwillingly. "John will improve. He comes to visit you. If he really thought you had hurt him, he wouldn't come to help you. John is a strong man. He'll pull through."

Paul drew out his phone and began to take notes, watching Sherlock carefully. Miller shared Sherlock's medical records with him, as well as John's, so that Paul was able to keep track of what medication they had each been given, so on and so forth. 

"That he what, Sherlock?" He asked softly, pressing past Mycroft's assurances, wanting to get more into the meat of it. 

Sherlock tore his hand away from Mycroft's chest and dropped it down to his own leg, fingers pressing hard into a large burned area just under the cloth. He grit his teeth and shook his head as his blood pressure and heart rate soared. "He w-wanted...t-t-told them to come and...and..." _John thinks you should have an exam_. He shuddered and dug into the injured flesh with more intent, watching stars crack across his vision. "I w-would retaliate...I would. I d-d-don't blame him I-" he shivered and gagged, mouth watering as his mind threw imagery at him. 

_Moran's voice slithered around his hearing as the video on the wall began to play. Sherlock was on his knees, stripped to nothing, butane dripping down his bleeding back. The whip was just in front of him, streaked with his blood, and he was trembling so hard with pain that he nearly fell over._

_"Do you know that John actually went still for me, just for a moment, when he thought it was you. As soon as he heard your voice, oh Sherlock you should have seen the hope in his expression. I took him on his back, like a bride, he felt your Belstaff scratching into his skin while surrounded with your scent. He knows you fucked him, love. He cried...oh he cried like his heart had been shattered. I suppose it had. He was willing to forgive you for the knives and the fire, for the beatings and the whip, but something...went out in him after that. I only had to do it once, just once, and he was never the same."_

_The sound of steel on flint roared in his ears just before the agonizing heat enveloped his back and Sherlock began to scream, pitched forward and rolling, torquing his shattered arm and smearing thick lines of blood across the floor from his ruined knee as he put himself out, Moran's laughter twisting in the smell of charred flesh. "Look at him, Sherlock," he ordered as he grabbed him up off the concrete floor and slammed him down on his stomach over the table he was typically affixed to, trembling, blood soaked feet barely touching the floor. Moran was making an effort to drag down his zip with as much sound as possible, rough and careless in his handling. "Watch the hope die. This is the moment, right here, watch."_

Sherlock cried out and clutched down at his leg, feeling the heat of blood finally seeping through both the bandaging and his night trousers. "I would h-hate me," he gasped, tears rolling heavy and fast down his face, "I w-w-would send the doctors, too." 

Mycroft's heart shattered. It tore apart the insides of his chest and each expansion of his lungs pushed the shattered bits further into the delicate flesh. "No, Sherlock. John did not send the doctors to hurt you. Do you remember that John is a doctor?" Mycroft was grasping at straws now, hoping to abolish the idea that doctors were evil with the one that Sherlock knew wasn't. 

"John was a doctor as well as a soldier. He worked at the clinic, remember? He would only send people if he was certain they would help you. You don't deserve punishment. John would never try and punish you."

"Sherlock...please listen to me." Mycroft pulled Sherlock's clawing hand away from his knee and kept it against his chest, palm flat. "Nothing that happened was your fault. John did not send doctors to hurt you."

Paul was on his feet, moving over to the door in search of Miller and nodding to him to come in just before moving back to Sherlock's side. Sherlock's teeth were clenched up tight, breathing harshly enough to make pinked foam collect at the corners of his mouth, shaking terribly. 

"Mycroft is right, Sherlock. I work with John daily, he did not send anyone to hurt you. He knows, logically knows that you did not hurt him. It's just taking time for his body to understand as well." 

Miller was in the room at the next minute, watching as Paul pointed to Sherlock's bloodied leg. He nodded, moving over and drawing sheers. "Sherlock, it's Dr. Miller. I'm just going to cut away this trouser leg to help you, your leg is bleeding." 

Sherlock pushed feebly against his brother, gagging and trying to sit up, desperately wanting off his back. "N-No! No I- No, _no_ ," he carried on, sobbing as confusion slid over him. 

_’Dear god, Sherlock, how many times am I going to find you sleeping?’ Moran's voice boomed through the thin layer of sleep Sherlock had been unable to stave off, making him jerk awake as adrenaline spiked through his heart. He screamed out, bucking against the chains holding him to the table as a blade dragged up the sole of his foot from heel to the webbing between his largest toe and its mate. ‘Going to have to help you, Sherlock. You're already bleeding and we've hardly got started. Let's talk about what you did to John Watson.’_

Sherlock's face was a mess of tears and sweat, his bloodied fingers curling into Mycroft's expensive shirt as began to beg. "My...My I'm sorry, My! P-Please My I d-didn't...J-John...p-p-please just t-tell John they g-g-got me okay? J-Just tell him...tell him that and-" his voice faded out as he began to hyperventilate, too short of breath to speak. 

Miller backed off, sheers at his pocket and hands in the air as he moved away, giving the men time to calm Sherlock down. 

Mycroft was trying his best to soothe Sherlock. He had taken Greg's advice and found it sound when it came to holding Sherlock, but nothing seemed to calm this fear that went straight through him. 

"Sherlock, nobody is going to hurt you. It's just Miller. He is an associate of mine." Mycroft decided it was time to drop the 'Dr.' as the title seemed to have a very negative connotation to Sherlock. "It's okay. He is not going to hurt you. Your leg is bleeding. He is going to stop the bleeding."

Sherlock slowly went lax against the bed as Mycroft spoke, crying pathetically as he clawed at the door to his mind palace. It was cold and dark there, but it was only painful in the same way standing in the room of a deceased loved one was. Echos of thriving life blanketed with the reality of loss. The physical tension slowly ebbed out of his body as he withdrew, accepting that what was going to be done was going to be done as he stumbled back into the damp, molded foyer and gently shut the splintered wood door behind him. 

_He managed to strike a match, lighting a gas lamp on the floor next to him. The flame threw long shadows over the former safety of his greatest accomplishment. "H-Here boy!" he managed weakly, his voice shaking with tears, already knowing that the familiar animal would never respond again._

Miller swore as Sherlock's monitors blared, his breathing too chaotic to be effective. He dropped the head of Sherlock's bed and pressed the mask over Sherlock's nose and mouth for the first time in weeks, taking over Sherlock's breathing to get him stable again. Paul stayed at his side and pressed a cloth over Sherlock's leg where it was bleeding, holding pressure as they worked to settle the situation. He looked to Mycroft, doing his best to assure him. 

"Large mental breakthroughs come with large price tags. This is not unexpected. His mind wants to work faster than his body." 

Mycroft shut his eyes and took a deep, calming breath. The castle in his mind, which was far less ornate than Sherlock's but generally proved to be both structurally sound and well organized, was beginning to offer forth more negative images. While such images were still complete possibilities, they leaned towards the 'glass half empty' side of things. Mycroft was in no way an optimist. To be an optimist, while keeping him generally happier, would remove any possibility of objectivity. Hope for the best but plan for the worst. 

"His mind has always wanted to work faster than his body. He's never treated his transport well. The link between mind and body has never been very apparent to him."

Miller kept on forcing Sherlock to breathe deeply until Sherlock grew suddenly combative. He wrenched his head to the side, dislodging the mask, struggling in an effort to get up. Miller held the mask back, just observing for the moment. It was possible that forcing Sherlock to breathe properly would help him understand the situation. 

Sherlock, however, clearly had a mind for escape. "St-op!" he managed to shout, blindly pushing against his brother without any attention to what he was doing. "I w-want to go _home_ ," he cried pathetically, shaking hard and sweating. He'd been in his mind and then abruptly was pushed back into the world without intending to leave. 

Paul reached out to help Mycroft, whom Sherlock had very nearly unseated from the bed entirely. He grabbed Sherlock's shoulder, putting his other hand on Sherlock's chest to push him back down. Miller had hold of Sherlock's bicep, catching him as he cocked his arm back to throw a punch. "Easy, easy," Miller warned as he struggled with him. Paul was having to lean a good deal of weight on Sherlock to pin him back down. Somehow in the chaos, Miller managed to get Sherlock's free hand back in the restraint before drawing up a sedative. 

Sherlock lay on the flat of his back, staring up at the ceiling, gone completely still now that he was restrained once again. Part of his mind supplied the days he'd been unable to leave John strapped down, loosing him against medical authorization, trying to free him from the fear. He bit at his lip and closed his eyes, heart hammering away in fear. "N-Not the tapes...please not today...n-not...not the tapes..."

Mycroft grabbed the side of the bed to keep on and put one foot on the floor. "Sherlock, calm down!" He shouted and helped them get his arms into the restraints. "Sherlock, look at me!" Mycroft commanded and took his face in his hands. "It's alright. It is MY. MY is here to help you! You can go home when you are healed! You can go home soon!"His voice slipped into a stressed, tight tone at the end and Mycroft stopped himself. 

_Pause._

This was not a time to break down. He was to be calm for Sherlock. Dealing with Sherlock's symptoms was nothing compared to dealing with being tortured and raped by a sadistic killer with a personal vendetta. 

_Resume._

"Sherlock, it's going to be alright." He spoke gently now, but loud enough to be heard above the din and beeping that marked the panicked atmosphere of the clean room. 

Paul stepped back once Sherlock was secured, breathing deep and taking notes before he forgot points he felt would be relevant. Miller began to push a sedative that would calm but not sedate, obviously concerned with Sherlock's rough breathing. That damned pneumonia was clinging hard. 

Sherlock felt the slide of the sedative wind through his circulatory system, making his body overly heavy and his thoughts pathetically sluggish. Miller put the mask back over Sherlock's face, speaking softly to him. "Sherlock, I'm just assisting you, you've got to slow down. You are safe. I'll stop when you slow down, try to breathe with me." He was far more gentle now that he had Sherlock's attention, watching the tortured man watching him. Despite Miller’s lack of personal attachment, it was difficult to watch the tears brim before slowly spilling over bruised-yellowed lids. 

Sherlock balled his better hand into a fist, swallowing and attempting to work with Miller despite the severe want to fight. He was deeply afraid, taxing his energy reserves with the force of his trembling. Sherlock blinked slowly, letting his eyes slide away from the physician at his head to his brother at his side. He'd forgotten that Mycroft was there, lost in his panic, and his expression suddenly melted from tight fear to pained relief, reaching for Mycroft. He whimpered in pathetic distress when his hand was stopped and he dropped his forearm down in heavy defeat. All the while, Miller kept forcing breaths as Sherlock needed to take them. 

Mycroft climbed back fully onto Sherlock's bed and laid down close beside him. One arm he draped protectively across Sherlock's shoulders and the other he reached down to Sherlock's less damaged hand. "Shhh...Sherlock, it's okay. It's okay. I'm here for you, alright? I am right here. Every thing is going to be okay." He smiled at his little 'Lock and did everything in his power not to appear as distraught and downtrodden as he felt. 

"Sherlock, Miller is my associate." Mycroft hesitated to use the word 'friend' as it might invalidate his statement to Sherlock. "He won't hurt you. He will protect and care for you."

Sherlock slowly began to breathe with the doctor, slowing down enough that Miller pulled the mask away. He stepped to the side after putting oxygen under Sherlock's nose via cannula and stepped back, dimming the lights and pointing to the door as Paul looked over to him, nodding his understanding that Miller would be just the other side out in the hall. Sherlock's leg still needed treating, but the bleeding had stopped on its own and it could wait. 

Sherlock was clutching at Mycroft's fingers as well as he could manage, his eyes closed, breathing as deeply as he could make himself. Anything to avoid Miller coming and breathing for him again. 

"I'm sorry," he breathed, ashamed of himself. 

"Sherlock, it is perfectly normal for you to be upset. It's normal for you to be afraid. For logical people like us, emotions like this, caused by fear and etched into the brain so deeply that they defy our control, can be quite terrifying. It's going to get better." Mycroft held Sherlock's hand and kissed the top of his head. 

"You've nothing to be sorry for. We'll go home as soon as you are healed physically."

Sherlock kept his eyes closed, shivering now as the sharp tang of adrenaline and fear was abating and the slow creep of pain was setting in. He'd jostled himself again, upsetting the myriad of injuries, and it was slowly stealing his breath away. 

"Sh-Shouldn't have m-moved," he whispered, cringing as a wave of pain slid over him. 

"It would be better for your own sake if you were still," Mycroft replied without a touch of scorn or haughtiness. "Please, Sherlock, stay still. Miller will help you feel less pain once you are calm."

Sherlock nodded slowly, exhausted and worn down. He licked his lip and dragged in as deep of a breath as he comfortably could. The scarring on his chest was overly tight and incredibly uncomfortable. The sedative in his system kept him heavy and he complied with his brother, no longer shifting to test the limits of his range. 

"The palace," he whispered after a few minutes, his tone dripping with loss, "Th-there's nothing...n-nothing. I...it's a t-total loss. Years and y-years of w-w-work...my greatest...g-greatest achievement is gone. R-Rotted...s-silent and dark."

The loss of one's mind palace, or castle, would be excruciating. Mycroft could not imagine why it would be like to enter into his own rows of neatly organized files and see ruin. "You'll have it back," he responded with more confidence than he felt. "As you heal, it will heal. It's not gone forever."

Sherlock remained silent, mentally tracking the familiar path to the front door of his palace, only to turn back abruptly. It was habit to go there when he needed peace and escape. The grimaced as he came right back to himself. 

"There is n-nowhere to hide," he breathed, not particularly having intended to speak audibly. 

"I know. It must be painful not to be able to escape. If you want, you could text John. I still have the happy, nice video of him. The one where he is smiling." Mycroft was careful to draw the distinctions between the tapes and the video John had made himself. 

Sherlock swiftly shook his head, "No," he breathed without hesitation, "No he...I...I d-don't want to m-m-make him upset again and-" he shivered hard, his heart rate spiking. The last he'd seen of John had ended horribly and then he'd sent the doctors after him. "N-No just...please l-leave him alone."

"Alright," Mycroft spoke hastily. "I won't ask anything of him. But if you ever want to watch the video, just ask. Do you need anything? You can ask for water or anything else you want." There were several topics that Mycroft wanted to bring up with his little brother, but was enjoying the relative peace. 

None of the things Sherlock wanted were things he could ask for. He was thirsty, though, and spoke very quietly. "I...is there water? A-and could...I don't l-like being f-flat on my back and t-t-tied down can...can I s-sit up?" He wanted to ask Mycroft to untie him, though he knew entirely that he would not be able to bear his brother telling him no. 

Mycroft addressed the water first. "Of course. One moment." 

He slowly released his brother and got a bottle of water out of a cabinet and one of the same, brightly colored little paper cups. Mycroft then slowly raised the head of the bed, giving Sherlock time to adjust with each degree it moved. "The last time we let you out, you made yourself bleed. I will release these if you promise not to." He knew the promise wouldn't do much good if Sherlock panicked, but it wouldn't hurt to try. 

Sherlock looked down at the cloth still adhered to the outside of his trouser leg and swallowed. It was aching brilliantly, residual pain from digging into the burn. "I've...n-no intention of doing s-so," he whispered, a tear abruptly sliding down his cheek. He was so impossibly trapped. Mycroft would never allow him to die, and he had nothing in the world left to live for. 

Mycroft unclasped Sherlock's hands and put the small cup of water in his less damaged one. "Slowly, please. You don't want to hurt your lungs further. If you need anything else, inform me or one of the doctors. They will respect your wishes if they are reasonable."

Sherlock brought the cup to his lips, managing not to spill the water all over himself. He managed a small amount before his stomach rolled and he began to sweat. His eyes closed as he dropped his hand down, resting the cup beside his hip, sweat beading along his brow. 

"Y-you said he...he w-was drinking water again," he asked, nearly in tears, forcibly keeping his teeth from chattering. "Th-that's unexpected." 

"Yes, it is. He's been making great strides in his recovery, and it seems he is motivated by the idea of helping you." Mycroft put one hip on the edge of Sherlock's bed and put his arm around his frail shoulders. "Greg has him walking around too. He likes being outside."

Sherlock leaned into his brother, relieved with the proximity. He was in brilliant pain, but it was something to hold onto. He closed his eyes, trying to picture John from before. "I cannot r-recall h-how he used to look...at m-me. Before...before..." he trailed off. _Before I failed him. Before I failed him. Before I failed him._

"I w-want you to c-catch him alive," Sherlock breathed, his hand tightening on the cup, "I w-want to s-s-see him f-first." 

"He looked at you like you hung the moon and the stars," Mycroft replied. "And he will again. He was always rather impressed with your deductions." 

Mycroft didn't think it was wise to take Moran alive. He was safer dead, where he couldn't call for backup. "I don't see why speaking to him would be good for you, Sherlock."

Sherlock closed his eyes as he allowed the words to rush over him. Perhaps John had looked at him so, all the more reason to assign blame in Sherlock's direction. Not that he needed assistance with that. The betrayal in John's tone would stay with him until he died. He'd been so...crushed...to hear that Sherlock loved him. He would never, ever say it again. If he ever spoke with John in the future, he'd wanted to at least tell him...

"I...I h-have to do _s-something_ in penance," he managed to bite out, caught between aching sadness and blistering rage, "I w-w-want something to offer h-him. I n-n-need...I...s-something w-worth his regard. I- Moran sh-should n-not enjoy a s-swift death and I h-have to m-m-make some s-sort of effort to r-r-ight what I've done."

"Sherlock...." Mycroft began in a despairing tone, "I don't believe that you hurting Moran will help John or reconcile you. I understand the urge, but John doesn't need you to start hurting people. Besides, that couldn't be good for you mentally. Now, I agree with you that he doesn't deserve a swift death. He deserves every single injury he inflicted on you and John tenfold, but we can not risk him escaping or calling in reinforcements."

Sherlock grit his teeth and nearly lost hold of the water in his hand. The physical pain was his anchor, keeping him from mental collapse. "Th-there m-must be s-s-something I- s-some way to...I..." his breathing hitched hard and he nearly shouted, the sound broken down into a distressed, agonized groan. 

"He h-has to know...I...I h-have to...there m-must be...pl-please don't t-tell me that th-there is n-n-nothing I can do...there h-has to be _something_...m-maybe if J-John knows I..." he dragged in a desperate breath, tears rolling fast and hard down his cheeks. "N-no more p-pain medication, then. M-Maybe if h-h-he knows...m-maybe th-then..." 

"Sherlock, no." Mycroft sat up a bit and looked him in the eyes. "John doesn't need you to be in more pain. He doesn't want you to be in pain at all. I hardly think hearing about how you tortured someone would help his frail mind. You can prove to him that you have good intentions by being kind when he comes, saying thank you and trying to be calm. That is what you can do to help him. You can make him feel useful and try to make him happy. Abusing yourself and others is not the way to help him."

Sherlock pressed a shaking hand over his eyes and took a moment to breathe through his teeth. "He h-hurts. I tried...tried to be c-calm last time and he s-still...I st-still ruined it." He shook his head, dropping his hand away, nearly spilling the water. "I h-hurt him j-just existing."

Mycroft took the water from Sherlock to keep it from spilling. "That will pass. Once you are in less pain, your mind will be able to cope a bit better. He is making improvements as well. You two will be together again soon. You existing isn't what causes you pain. It is his own trauma. You are giving him something to work past."

Sherlock shook his head, shaking and struggling against tears. "He...h-he is always the worse wh-when he is f-f-forced to see me. I do n-not want to see him again." 

Mycroft heaved a heavy sigh and pulled Sherlock closer so he could rest against his shoulder. "Sherlock, this isn't easy for him, or you. I know that it terrifies you to hurt John, especially after what you have been through. But John isn't living for himself anymore. That much has been made clear. I think that if you truly want to help him, you'll need to give him a reason to be alive."

Sherlock was quiet for several minutes, breathing tight and controlled, struggling hard to keep the grief from ripping him apart. When he finally spoke, it was hardly louder than a whisper. Voice shaking, he explained to his brother, "G-Greg hangs the st-stars now. He....h-he may n-n-need something to l-live for, but that st-stopped being me when h-he decided Af-f-frica had m-more to offer. I am n-nothing. N-not to John. N-not to the Yard, or L-London or-" he sank his fingers in his hair and pulled harshly, needing the sharp lick of pain to keep himself from falling down into panic. 

"No, Sherlock," Mycroft felt like he was running in circles, each solution he offered simply making things worse. "He didn't leave for Africa as a personal offense! It was obviously something he had wanted to do for quite some time. You still mean something to John, and to Greg, and to me. You'll be able to help the Yard once you recover. Please, just try and understand what you mean to John."

Sherlock nearly pulled out of Mycroft's arms. "I u-understand perfectly. I m-m-mean pain...d-disappointment...f-f-failure. I mean b-b-betrayal and f-fear, hunger and d-drowning. I m-mean d-d-d-darkness and...and...and s-s-sex and-" his heart rate was through the roof, screaming on his monitors as his entire body slowly locked up. "H-h-he does n-n...n-not deserve t-to be...f-f-f-forced in my company.” Each breath was a wheezing mess at this point, as Sherlock nearly fell apart. His voice dropped to something nearly inhuman, broken and terrified. 

“I am the m-monster under h-his bed."

"No, Sherlock, try and calm down." Mycroft didn't let his brother go and instead wrapped himself more protectively around him. 

"You used to mean those things. I won't coddle you and pretend otherwise. But that is a physical memory. He has moved beyond it logically. We want the logical part of him to eventually overcome the trauma, correct? I believe that you being kind to him will help ease his recovery."

Sherlock broke down then, crying pathetically into Mycroft's shoulder, trying to shelter from the world there with his sibling. The task was beyond him. "I c-can't," he sobbed, "I look a-at Miller and see...and...and th-think...h-how am I to h-heal him? He...wh-when I w-was sound...he..." Sherlock pressed the bruised edge of his cheekbone against Mycroft's shoulder, seeking pain, "H-he only would s-see me when I'd been...when I'd...been d-damaged, that's what m-made him see me. Th-this...I deserve th-this and-" 

He lost the ability to speak, hardly breathing as he choked on grief.

Mycroft's arteries continued to push bits of shattered glass trough his body as he heard his little brother so distraught and devastated. "That will pass. You won't heal him, and he won't heal you. The two of you will help each other, as you always did. He took care of you more than you were aware, I believe, before this happened. He asked me to look after you when he left. He told me that it was now my job to keep you out of too much trouble."

Sherlock could not get his voice back for several minutes as he thought about life when it was...well...life. He thought of John in his socked feet, pecking away on his laptop, smelling of tea and cotton. 

_You don't need them, you're doing really well. Cold turkey, we agreed._

_You've not eaten in a day, Sherlock. Sit down and put something in your mouth or we are not going anywhere._

_Bit not good, yeah._

_Brilliant. Just brilliant._

_You've just fallen into a rusted bin and cut yourself. You are getting a tetanus jab, Sherlock._

_You have to sleep. Drink this and go to sleep._

"I...I always knew," he choked out, mourning without the aid of his walls and barriers, "I n-needed him. M-more than the w-work and...I n-need him," he was hardly articulate between deep, aching sobs, "I tried t-to find c-cases for him, t-tried to k-k-keep him and I w-wasn't enough th-then and I'm n-not enough now." 

"He was worried about you terribly before he left. But it was clear that he wanted to go to Africa. He didn't leave to hurt you. Now he knows you need him, and he is staying for you." Mycroft held his brother and let him grieve. 

"Now that he knows, he will stay with you. He will try and help you even more than before. I'm sure of it."

Sherlock shook his head, unable to speak through emotion he was never in his life prepared to handle, and far less so now. "H-his f-face!" he finally choked out, reaching up and pulling at his hair, twisting with loss, "H-he...wh-why did I bloody t-tell him I l-loved him? Why, WHY did I s-say such..." his breathing hitched so hard he gagged, that reflex now very easily triggered. 

"His f-face...his f-face oh god he...s-such loathing. I can't...I can't bear it. I know y-y-you think...I _know_...I-" his head pounded terribly was he cried, entire body singing with sharp, terrible pain. "His...god his f-face...h-h-he would n-never help me n-now. I...the e-error is too great...too...it's over. It's o-over." 

"He doesn't hate you," Mycroft responded instantly. He was going to keep on his statements until Sherlock accepted them or he ran out of air. 

"If you had told him how you felt sooner, he would only have been taken from his home. Moriarty would have gotten to him either way. This isn't on your shoulders, just as your capture isn't on his." Mycroft understood the guilt, as he personally blamed himself for not catching up with that van, or not letting Sherlock make the deal in the first place. "It isn't over. Not yet."

Sherlock tore at his hair but kept still, just trying to breathe as his ears rang and the room spun. He was clenching his teeth now with such force it was audible as the enamel, weakened and sensitive, endured the stress of it. Sherlock could not endure much else as the pain at his knee, from his heel, the splintered arm began to scream from his earlier struggles and he struggled to remind himself that he was not on the table. Fear began to wrap around his spine, slithering cold and oily, cloaking his mind in a haze of dread. 

"I d-don't want to see him," he whimpered, referencing now the terrible projections on the wall. "P-please I...n-not the screaming...I...I...n-not today p-please I don't want to see him."

Mycroft could tell that Sherlock was slipping and made an attempt to pull him back up. "Sherlock! It is Mycroft! I will not make you watch anything. Would you like more water? Would you like some music?" He put himself in Sherlock's line of sight and tried to mentally support him. "No screaming, no tapes. But you have to remember where you are. Tell me where you are."

Sherlock shook his head, dragging his fingers down the side of his face, along his neck, going for pain to ease the fear. "I'm...I'm...h-here and- John is..." he sobbed pathetically, "please don't h-hurt him," he whimpered and turned his face away, eyes pinched shut and body shaking hard. 

He separated his teeth enough to get his cheek between his molars and began to grind down, working at the sutures in his mouth where Moran's fist had gashed the flesh open against his teeth. He drew away from Mycroft, not fully understanding, pulling his damaged limbs in closer and weeping with the pain of it. 

Mycroft turned to the little table for a moment and sent a quick text to Miller informing him that Sherlock was deteriorating. "Sherlock, I am not going to hurt you. Nobody is going to hurt you, or John. John is safe and not in pain."

Mycroft's expression turned when Sherlock pulled away from him and his eyes reflected Sherlock's sorrow. "I won't let anyone hurt John. Please, 'Lock, it's My."

Paul came in at Mycroft's page, leaving Miller in the hallway. If Sherlock was sinking, Miller was likely to set him over. He assured the doctor that he'd get a decent assessment before calling him in, and would only bring in Miller if necessary. 

He took in the scene for a few seconds before moving, crouching down beside Sherlock's bed without touching him. "Sherlock, you are hurting yourself like that," he said calmly, watching Sherlock trying to pedal his legs in a defensive, fearful reaction. Sherlock's color was ashen and the sweat on his brow now capturing his damp curls, sticking them down to his skin. "Sherlock, look at me." 

Sherlock screamed at him, grabbing the pillow under his hand and clutching to it as though he could protect himself. "D-DON'T TOUCH M-M-ME!" 

Paul put up his hands and stepped back, looking Sherlock over sadly. His phone was in his hand in the next moment and he suddenly nodded, looking at Mycroft, "He fought those restraints. Likely set himself up for a good deal of pain. Let's see if getting that managed brings him back." He moved out of the room as Sherlock lay on the bed, sobbing.

"Not t-today...p-please not today. I w-want to sleep, please...j-just a bit of s-s-sleep." 

Miller was in a few minutes later with a heavy painkiller already drawn up. He moved quietly to Sherlock's side, managing to get the needle into the line before Sherlock opened his fevered eyes and honed in on him, fear clouding over the glassy irises. Sherlock shrank back with such force he nearly fell off the bed, shaking his head and crying out for his brother. "My! H-HELP! MY!" 

Mycroft tried desperately to distract Sherlock from Miller's prescence. "Sherlock, look at me. Look at me. I am going to help you. Nobody is going to hurt you. I will kill anyone who tried to hurt you. Please trust me. You have to trust me." He turned Sherlock's face towards his chest and held him as tightly as he could without hurting him. 

When Sherlock began to shout, Mycroft kissed the top of his head. "Sherlock, I AM HERE. I AM MY! IT'S ME! IT'S MYCROFT!"

Sherlock reached for his brother, hanging on to his clothes in a desperate grip and sobbing like a child. Miller pushed the dilaudid as Sherlock babbled in a mix of languages to his brother, wailing in his fear.. 

"My! My help, My oh god, h-help help, My, I can't, My god he's- pl-please, PLEASE I don't w-want-" he dissolved down into panicked tears, shaking hard as the medication began to slither over the pain.

Mycroft shook his head. "Nothing that you don't want to happen will happen. Tell me what you are afraid of, and I'll keep it from happening." 

Mycroft brushed Sherlock's hair out of his face where it was plastered with sweat. "I'll protect you."

Sherlock cried as though being asked to choose his torment. "Please," he sobbed, doing his best to appeal to Mycroft's mercy, "I..please...not...god I don't want him t-t-to...please let me stay dressed. I don't w-want to pay for…I c-can't pay for the medicine! Please!"

_Oh, god_. Mycroft's hand flew to his mouth for a moment and he shook his head. "You...you don't have to pay for this, Sherlock. This medicine is from me, and you don't need to pay for it." 

Mycroft noted that he would need to speak with Paul about that, and eventually Sherlock would too. "You can keep your clothes on. You don't have to pay."

Sherlock slowly began to relax as the pain gradually dampened, easing off the intensity. He held tight to Mycroft, shagging and expecting retribution any moment.

Miller eased off, slowly backing out of the room. When the door closed Sherlock's stomach heaved and he began to gag, shaking his head and struggling to keep from vomiting. "Oh good th-thank-" he gagged again, hiccuping and choking before carrying on, "thank you, thank y-you."

"Sherlock, it's okay. You don't need to pay for anything ever again. Not ever, ever again. Do you understand? Moran will never touch you again." Mycroft buried his face in Sherlock's shoulder for a moment and held Sherlock's head to him. "Never again. You can keep your clothes on."

Slowly Sherlock slid down into sleep. The day had been terribly exhausting, despite having only been awake a few hours. His bandaged fingers slowly loosed on the material of Mycroft's shirt and he sagged down into the bedding, sweat damp and shaking, wrung out with his breathing hitching like a child's. 

\---

Paul and Miller allowed a solid half hour to pass before they returned inside the room. Miller sat across from Mycroft, on the side opposite Sherlock, and Paul moved to the table on Mycroft's side. He set a covered plate of food down and bottle of water, as well as a few tablets for pain, and a few for nerves, clearly labeled. 

He sat back down next to Miller and looked over at Mycroft, speaking softly. "Whenever you are ready to talk. Please take a moment to eat."  
Mycroft held Sherlock and turned his back on the world. It was several moments before he finally faced Paul and sat up a bit. "He believed he would have to pay for medicine with sexual acts." Mycroft stated a bit too calmly.

Paul nodded as Miller took careful measurements of Sherlock's condition without touching him. "Miller explained," he said quietly, mindful that Sherlock was not formally sedated, though unlikely to wake. He cleared his throat and met Mycroft's eye. 

"The tapes. We need to watch them. Sherlock is...deeply wavering in his condition, from extreme lucidity to rapid memory recall to outright flashback hallucination. The tapes are at this point -and I'm so very sorry to use the term- a gift. The most time consuming portion of trauma healing is memory recovery, and here we've the tapes to know exactly what we are working with." 

Mycroft knew he was going to have to watch the tapes eventually, but was still slightly dreading the idea of watching Sherlock be abused. He thought that perhaps he could handle the torture. He could handle the psychological damage being done, but watching his little 'Lock be raped would make objective thinking challenging. 

"I agree," he said regardless. "We should watch them. Knowing Moran, they won't be nearly as organized, and there will be weeks of footage."

Paul nodded, "It would be...necessary to view every single bit of footage. However, a few from each week would likely be of great help. Now, you say 'we,' and I'm not sure that you...Mycroft I will not insult your intelligence. I would think on it first before you agree to watch them. You've...this is not something any brother should have to endure." 

"I am going to watch them. I need to know of any triggers he might have, be aware of anything that might cause him pain. It will be emotionally traumatic, and I am prepared to deal with that. I have weighed the options and believe it would be more beneficial for me to know all the variables than to be fresh." 

Mycroft was reminded of how fresh Greg had been in the beginning, and how it had worn him down. "I can handle this. I'll not have someone who doesn't know him watch them alone. He needs his privacy."

Paul nodded, knowing better than to even humor the idea of countering Mycroft on this. "Alright. My guess is that the sexual aspect of the abuse did not start until later in his captivity. We viewed a good bit of the footage already. It is highly likely that this was used just frequently enough to make a sleep deprived, tortured man expect it at all times. It would warp anyone's perspective of how frequently that sort of violation was happening. I do also think we need to put a rush on altering this room. Sherlock frequently requires restraint, and he's clearly disturbed by this interior." 

Miller leaned forward and shifted the blankets to get a better look at the bandage over Sherlock's neck. "This needs to be seen to. He's dug into the skin surrounding, I'd like to keep him as free from infection as possible. His lungs are still...quite stressed. On that note, I'm afraid there are a few medical decisions that must be made, and swiftly. Sherlock has ailing lungs and a seriously compromised circulatory system at the moment. He requires another round in theatre, and while there is no way to avoid that, we can lessen the time he is there and the stress his body endures. This will compromise his long term prognosis as far as a complete return to his mobility, thought it will significantly increase his odds of survival. Currently they sit around 65%, we can boost those closer to 80."  
Mycroft hadn't even _considered_ Sherlock's chance of survival as anything other than constant and verified. He shook himself mentally. Of course Sherlock was in danger. He had been so focused on getting Sherlock to a place where he could function and worrying about the future that he had neglected the fact that Sherlock could still die. "I..yes. Of course. Miller, I suggest focusing on survival. Without mobility...Sherlock will be miserable. But I would prefer him to live through this."

He slowly released Sherlock and stood at the side of the bed, one arm still reluctantly lingering with his brother. "Paul, we should begin viewing the tapes today. Now, in fact. We can pick up where we left off, perhaps divide and be more efficient." 

Paul stood as well, eyeing the neglected food and medicine. "Mycroft," he said in the same matter of fact tone, "You desperately need to eat, and hydrate, at the least. You have just endured a very trying period with Sherlock. Please give yourself a few hours to rest and care for yourself. Sherlock desperately needs you, just as much as John needs Greg, and if you pass out he'll have to endure alone." 

Miller remained where he was, focusing on his notes, clearly intent to sit company with Sherlock

Mycroft considered snapping at Paul and telling him that it was not his place to tell him what to do, but after a quick filter, he found the statement would be unnecessary. Paul's advice was sound, and in this situation pride was an emotion that simply couldn't be factored in. "Yes, of course. I'll take this into my office," he took the tray, "and eat there. Meet me in thirty minutes to watch the tapes."

Paul drew in a deep breath, watching as Mycroft left. He looked down to Miller and then back to Sherlock. "What the fuck are we going to do with him when Mycroft finally drops?" 

Miller shrugged, not particularly wanting to delve into the idea of Sherlock missing Mycroft's company. "Likely keep him sedated and pray like hell that Sherlock's lungs keep working. I'll be here, I'm going to top off that sedative to hopefully keep him down and then I'm going to treat the damage he did. It's a bad idea for Mycroft to keep letting him loose, though hell knows I'd be struggling to keep my brother pinned down after all this as well. Paul." his tone shifted down in warning, "the damage I treated was likely done over a few days, and was only two to three weeks old. It was violent. You may want to advise Mycroft not to watch. Doubtful he's going to listen, but we can always try." 

Paul agreed, looking to Sherlock and shaking his head. "This is the worst I've ever seen, these men. That they are in any capacity functioning or lucid is beyond...well, I'm sure I don't have to tell you. I'm going to go make an effort at sense with Mycroft." 

By the time he arrived at the office, it was exactly thirty minutes in and he knocked lightly, leaning against the door frame.


	5. The Mountain

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, warnings for graphic violence of all natures.

Mycroft ate in silence. He was mentally preparing himself for what was about to happen, going through his logical processes over and over again. The fact that he had overlooked Sherlock's possible death was daunting. He wasn't considering all the variables.

He was about to watch his brother be tortured and violently raped. It would have a severe emotional effect on him. Mycroft went through a list of all the possible emotions it could bring about. 

_Guilt- stemming from inability to protect_  
-Protected as a youth  
-Long standing need to preserve and defend   
Shame- invasion of privacy  
Anger- at Moran (and self -under; shame-)  
-Might cause rash actions regarding capture  
Disgust  
Pain  
Fear- he won't recover  
Loss- he won't recover  
Hopelessness- he won't recover  
Despair- he won't recover 

Mycroft ran his fingers back through his hair and took a long breath. "Come in."

Paul moved inside without hesitation and settled in the chair across from Mycroft. He laced his fingers together and dropped one knee over the other, watching Mycroft for a moment. "You are running incredibly low on rest. I am fully aware of your unfavorable regard to my keeping physical tabs on you, though do feel free to vent. I am not going to ask you to stop, I only recommend that you decide here and now how long we will be at this and how long you will allot for sleep. He needs you. You need to be properly cared for so that he can be properly cared for."

"I am aware that I need sleep in order to continue providing care and emotional support for Sherlock." Mycroft sounded a bit robotic, but he truly was considering all the options. Pride wasn't needed now, and was disregarded. It was principle above rank. 

"I appreciate your desire to help Sherlock, even if it means giving advice to someone you wouldn't normally give it to. I believe we should watch the tapes until we have a basic understanding of what is going on. If I become emotionally compromised, which is quite likely, I will call it short and rest." 

That was likely as good as it was going to get, and Paul nodded his understanding. "Alight. then if you are ready to get started." 

Sherlock slept as Miller saw to his care, beginning the long evening rotation for the man in addition to repairing the damage Sherlock had done. 

Mycroft set up his logical processes once more. They were a well oiled machine that he kept in constant repair by running test scenarios, checking for internal narratives or any places where his own phaneron wasn't as close to reality as it possibly could be. He had no delusions that he would be able to disconnect and be emotionally above this. To do so would leave him vulnerable to that which he did not prepare for. 

_Guilt. Shame. Anger. Disgust. Pain. Fear. Loss. Hopelessness. Despair._

"Let's begin with about a week in. It was fairly straightforward what was happening at the time. I believe the sexual abuse happened a bit later, though, when Sherlock was broken down more mentally." He took the tapes out of the safe and box and put the appropriate one in. 

The first hour was essentially a recap of what they'd already seen. Sherlock had remained ornery from go, despite bearing bullet holes and being swiftly beaten unrecognizable. It was not until Sherlock scrambled off the table, having had invasive medical treatment clear down to life support, Moran taunting him with a death he'd allow Sherlock to shake hands with and nothing more. He watched as Sherlock worked the length of string free, incredulous at his resolve and continued quick thinking, and wrapped it expertly around his already carved neck. 

Paul turned slightly to gauge Mycroft as Sherlock's body began to lock up, his lips turning blue, slumping to the side lifeless. 

Mycroft watched Sherlock attempt to kill himself. It was irrational to believe that holding his breath and willing Moran to discover him would help in any way, and Mycroft stopped himself immediately. Sherlock's blue lips and the way the tension bled out of his body forced Mycroft to move his eyes to something other than Sherlock's face. He watched his hands, his arms, torso, but not his face. 

Once he noticed the avoidance, Mycroft analyzed it. Controlling his mind was the only thing he truly had control over at the moment, and while he would generally criticize his need to have constant control over the situation, it was currently a benefit. Perhaps it was the expression. No, the eyes. 

Mycroft forced himself to look at Sherlock's face and added another factor to his emotional spreadsheet. 

_Loss- closest thing available to intellectual equal  
Sherlock's 'spark', which makes him unique, appears to be gone._

As the tape continued and Moran found Sherlock, Mycroft made note that while Moriarty had been clever enough to tear John down and build a new, fearful John in his place, Moran simply destroyed. 

Paul had been exposed to videos of torture hundreds of times, both in academia and with his forensic psychiatry work. This was expert and sloppy all in the same measure. Nearly as though..."He's intentionally being sloppy. Why would he do that? There are times when he's meticulous in his handling and others when he's simply...reckless, perhaps- oh, _oh_." He recalled what Sherlock had cried out about earlier and shook his head. "The brandy. At times he's drunk." 

He noted how Moran had used intense psychological fear; I _'m going to break your arm now, hold it out,_ along with horrific physical pain in tandem, allowing Sherlock just enough of himself to carry hope. To keep fighting. He wanted Sherlock to carry on giving him reasons to hurt him, and wasn't that interesting. 

"Why did he waste his time on _you_?" Moran was shouting as he made Sherlock scream, twisting a large spike into Sherlock's shoulder, "You're dull, you're boring! Not worth his time," he carried on, making Sherlock twist at the hips in an effort to come off the table, straining his wrists hard enough to severely bloody them.   
"Yes, he's skilled at this, but I believe he had a personal hatred towards Sherlock that came out in full force when drunk." Mycroft's voice was calm, but concerned. He would make no illusion that this did not affect him. "Ah, there it is." There was the reason for Moran's hatred, spelled out from the man's own mouth. "He resents Sherlock for becoming the object of Moriarty's obsession." 

Mycroft shook his head almost sadly at Sherlock's remark about Moran and Moriarty's sex life, willing his brother silently to stop, to not provoke such a dangerous man. He was able to watch for the rest of the session, but after he realized the next several hours would just be John screaming in the background and Sherlock sobbing on the table, he skimmed through to when Moran entered again. 

_He was clearly intoxicated, having left his small cart in the doorway in favor of a knife at his hip. "I could make you think you raped him," he jeered when he had prodded Sherlock awake. Moran dug the knife into Sherlock's arm with no hesitation and no forewarning, a clear sign of either a sadist, trained torturer, or sociopath._

_"He thinks you did. God, you should have seen him, all tied up for me. Beautiful. I had him laid out naked on your coat. Oh, he screamed. I think it was the betrayal that got to him the most, don't you think?" Moran twisted the knife without looking at the damage he was doing, instead fishing for a reaction on Sherlock's face. "I didn't mind pretending to be you. Meant I could be rougher. I could tear him apart, make him my fucking whore, and you'd get all the blame. He said your name. Well, I suppose it was more of a sob. Would you have liked to hear that? 'Sherlock, stop! No, please, Sherlock, stop!'" Moran mimicked John with a roar of laughter and another sloppy cut with the knife._

Paul leaned forward, one hand over his mouth as he rest his elbow on his knee, watching intently. It was a mess. Moriarty serving his fixation on Sherlock, Moran venting the frustration that caused. Sherlock was still fighting at this point in the tapes, still defiant and raging. It seemed he was aware of the time and his reality, that John was not there. Sherlock was still nearly gray with fever, his skin translucent and battered, hair matted and wild. It was incredible to see the difference just a few weeks of proper care had given him. 

Paul flicked his eyes up away from Sherlock and to the screen where John was playing out on the wall. The man was dropped down to his hands and knees, his back split open and bleeding, elbows shaking and a mess of blood and saliva running from his mouth. Sherlock's attention flicked to the screen before he looked back at Moran, bucking under the knife. 

"Visits with John are traumatic outside of John's reaction, even if he's hiding it, there is no way he's not in acute distress when he's in John's company. This...this conditioning will have some impact for at least a little while."

"Yes, I've noticed that as well." Mycroft reviewed his logical processes once more and factored in his current desires. He wished to find Moran and murder him. That was to be expected, and he filed it under anger. He continued on until he had a basic layout of his current responses. 

_Murder/torture Moran_  
-Anger  
-Guilt (attempt to rectify actions)  
Hold Sherlock  
-Grief  
-Fear  
-Loss  
Give up -Will likely increase as more information is learned and tapes watched. Caused by knowledge and experience gained by seeing what has happened. Continue watching with caution.-  
-Hopelessness  
-Despair 

"He seems to have an intense fear both of John, and hurting John. He continues to send him away, and while it comforts Sherlock to be able to hold him, it also seems to stress him intensely." Mycroft continued with the tapes. "He really ought to give up the quips, though."

"He won't," Paul responded automatically, internally shaking himself for the slip. Sherlock was clearly trying to push Moran to murder. He had no plan to survive and therefore continued pushing the Moran, refusing to go silent which is what he would have done had he been intending to try and live. 

Mycroft was holding up remarkably well under the stress. "From what I've observed, Sherlock only begins to stress when there is the faintest suggestion that he's alarming John. He is, on initial reaction to seeing John, nearly always relieved and his vitals level out. John soothes him. It is when John is frightened that he slides down hard." 

He grimaced as Moran made Sherlock scream so harshly he was sicking up. It was a particularly difficult thing to watch, when pain hit that threshold. 

Mycroft took deep breaths. Seeing his little 'Lock in such pain, his efforts on death, was depressing and sickening. Mycroft's stomach churned and he kept an even voice. "He will likely always be terrified of hurting John. Nobody wants to hurt their friend, or lover, or whatever they were or will be, but after this...It will take a long time for him to recover from it. I don't know how they will ever live together again, which is what he would need." 

Mycroft allowed himself to close his eyes for a few seconds and end the images. "I have more empathy for him now, having to watch John be tortured. Especially in that mental state."

Paul chalked that particular bit of information up as a positive outcome with the tapes. More empathy from Mycroft would be fitting. It was clear that Sherlock had previously never been one for tenderness or gentle handling, but he decidedly needed that now. 

"On that, at least, I've some optimism. That he and John can speak at all, can communicate in any way, is more than I ever would have estimated for them. If there is one thing these men do, it's defy odds." He had no idea either, but he'd lost most of his doubt in both John and Sherlock. They were incredible men. 

They slid through another set of tapes which involved Sherlock chained down, watching John as the man was taken apart just as Sherlock was enduring, only Moriarty handled John with far more finesse and false comfort. It was appalling, really, to hear the soft tones pared with the blunt instruments. 

Moran returned a few hours into the forwarded tapes, and they slowed it down just in time for him to carry in white-hot clamps, even as Sherlock's chest heaved and rattled with easily audible infection. "Mycroft," Paul whispered, "do you have the endurance for this at the moment?"

Mycroft kept his expression slightly pained, an effort to remind himself that now was not the time to be impervious, but strong. He was not to hide behind any sort of walls that would block out his emotions and bits of necessary information. 

"I have the endurance for this currently, but those," he gestured to the clamps, "those will be stressful to watch. I'll need to work through a few things on my own before we return to this. Hopefully I will be able to watch these with more objectivity as time goes on, though a breakdown due to stress is plausible. I'll guard against it. Continue the tapes, for now, and don't worry about whether or not I can handle it. It is in his best interests if I forgo pride and keep myself in a healthy state." Speaking the words out loud made Mycroft accountable for them, which was what he needed to strengthen his resolve. 

Paul nodded, turning back to the footage. It was indescribably cruel, what Sherlock was subjected to. Already soaked with infection, Sherlock's breathing was rough and loud, the clamps blistering hot. Sherlock's skin had begun to redden even before Moran drove a blade into him, making him scream, thus flooding his lungs with air and then cough violently. Smoke rose from the metal. When it cleared, strips of skin were stuck to the damned things. Sherlock blacked out and Moran began to laugh.

"It seems like an almost inalienable right for a human to breathe," Mycroft stated as Sherlock's flesh stuck to the clamps, which now glowed a ruddy orange. "To take that from someone and subject them to so much pain is beyond cruel." 

Mycroft shut the video off and stared at the dark screen where his brother had been. "I would like you to understand that it is imperative that I do not lose my health. I am going to make a strict schedule to obey with mandatory rest and meals. If you find me deviating for any reason, I expect you to call it to my attention." 

Paul looked over at Mycroft, nodding. "I would recommend you simply set a standard of rest and food for each twenty four hour period, as Sherlock's schedule is so unpredictable, but yes. I'm happy to help in any way that you will allow. Dr. Miller is with Sherlock, and John and Greg are sleeping. I will go rest a while myself, and I do hope you do the same. Do you need something for sleep?"

"Yes, that is a logical and flexible idea." Mycroft had completely lost any desire to wait for Moran's capture. Mycroft wanted to _rip him apart_. "I will rest now, though I will need time to process my own reactions to the tapes and how I can apply the knowledge gained to Sherlock's recovery." 

Mycroft started with a daily plan. Each 24 hour period he would get at least six hours of sleep, three meals, and forty eight ounces of fluids. He would check his own mind daily, check for physical signs of decay, and make sure he wasn't sacrificing his health for his work. Mycroft kept what was occurring to Greg in his mind as he wrote down a plan. 

\---

Sherlock came awake six hours after Mycroft and Paul left, shifting slightly until pain wrapped around his body. He kept his eyes closed, forcing himself to breathe slowly in an effort not to draw attention to himself. His eyes cracked open and he took in the familiar white walls and the pull of restraints. He closed his eyes against the world. He'd dreamt of his brother and the safe embrace of arms that did not seek to hurt, it had been a wonderful reprieve. 

Slowly he pulled into his mind, following the familiar path of the rotted palace he used to love so deeply. He walked inside, feeling his weight sink into the sodden floorboards, inhaling the rot that now meant the safe retreat of his mind. He would make do. The dilapidated house was much better than reality. 

Mycroft was asleep in his bed when Sherlock awoke, unaware and in much needed repose. Mycroft had an alarm set to wake him after six hours, to go off in one, and his phone with the volume at it's maximum was placed on the little stand by his bed. 

Miller kept to Sherlock's side, watching him closely. He was quiet, and while he was awake and withdrawn, he was medically sound. He did not notify anyone yet, as the need to let the others rest outweighed everything else at the moment. 

Mycroft awoke to his alarm and immediately checked his phone. Despite the absence of any alerts, he got up to check on Sherlock. It only took him a few minutes to get to his room. Before entering, he made a list of things to be brought in to make the room more friendly. Wallpaper, but not the kind at 221B, lamps for soft light, rugs, curtains and some small decorations were to be brought in.

Miller stood up as Mycroft came in. "He's been awake three hours. Not moved or spoken. He is medically doing well. I gave him his standard medications then, he'll need them again in an hour. I will be just outside if you need anything."

Mycroft spoke softly to Sherlock and sat down at the edge of his bed. "Hey, 'Lock. It's me, My. I'm just...I'm going to be right here, alright? If you need anything, you can ask." 

Mycroft's voice slid through the open windows of Sherlock's house. It was no longer a palace. Just a dilapidated building that he decided would simply be a house now. He moved to the open window and tested the air, smelling sterility and Mycroft. Cautiously he moved to the door, cracking it open and calling out without moving. "My," he breathed in testing question. 

The quiet mutter crashed through his emotional defenses like a cascading wave through a child's sand castle. "Yes, it's My. I'm right here and going to protect you. There will be no more pain." Mycroft wrapped his arms around his brother softly and tipped his head down. 

Sherlock was still and silent as his brother leaned into him. He registered the touch, knew someone was over him that smelled like his brother. Minutes ticked passed without any movement from the younger Holmes. 

"Will I...I be a-allowed t-to stay with you, when I c-can't stay here anymore," he was dropped down hard in the hours he'd laid there, soaking in fear, expecting agony at any moment in the company of Moran. "I'm...I d-d-don't belong anywhere, I w-want to stay with you."

"You can stay with me if you want. I've got a big house, and nobody in it." Other than staff, he remembered. They all had background checks, but he would have to tighten security if he was going to have Sherlock in. "You can stay with me for as long as you want. You'll have a nice life."

Sherlock was quiet again for nearly an hour, drawn back up into his mind, wandering around the house and stumbling upon a folder. He crouched down and flipped it open, looking at transcripts and photos from the days just before John left. 

_He's packed his bags. The flat is already colder for it, hateful boxes lined along the walls and Mrs. Hudson's care packages lined up for him to take along. He finally asked if I'd be able to manage the rent without him. I suppose that would be relevant to how many of his few possessions he could leave behind._

_I tried playing for him tonight. He asked that I keep it down so that he could finalize his travel arrangements over the phone._

_All I want is heroin._

Sherlock came back to himself with tears sticking to his lashes. "John," he whispered, staring at the phantom across the room, his voice lined with sadness. "I...I sh-should have...you should h-have left m-me sooner." He stared at John, watching the betrayed anger slide over his features, a mirrored reflection of how he'd looked when Sherlock so stupidly told him that he loved him. He whined with the pain of it, shaking his head and trying to cover his face in an effort to hide. His wrists caught and he went very still, ears attuned for sounds of approach. 

_"If you'd just told me sooner, Sherlock, his wouldn't have to happen. If you'd not been such a coward, so hateful and dismissive, this wouldn't have to happen,"_ John clipped, irritated. Sherlock stared at him, eyes going wide as Moran seemingly stepped right out of John's body, heading towards Sherlock with pliers, grinning with bloodied hands. 

Sherlock groaned in guttural fear, pulling violently at the restraints, "I'm sorry! I'm s-s-sorry no! NO please John no, no nonono, J-John," he sobbed, shaking so hard his teeth knocked together, heart rate shooting up through the roof, "I'm sorry John! P-Please don't! J-JOHN PLEASE!" 

Mycroft kissed the top of Sherlock's head. "John isn't here. It's Mycroft. Please, please remember me. Please remember where you are." He didn't think he could bring Sherlock down out of this, which left his options at either letting Sherlock spiral down, trying to help him, or bringing medication involved. 

Mycroft hung on to his brother and decided against releasing his arms. "Sherlock, I am so sorry about everything that happened to you. I am going to keep you safe. I love you, 'Lock. Do you know that? Do you know that I love you? I haven't said it...God, it's been years. I'm sorry." 

Sherlock lay there sobbing, unaware of his brother for another half an hour. He grit his teeth and endured the hazy memory of pain, listening to John explain each and every reason that he was having Moran at him. When he finally drew back to awareness, he scrambled to get closer to his brother, tugging at the restraints and shaking terribly. 

"He h-hates me, oh g-g-god he...tell him I'm d-dead, please t-tell him I d-died," he lamented, crying pathetically, "H-he'll s-s-s-stop if I'm dead." 

Mycroft shook his head and clutched Sherlock to his chest, "John doesn't hate you, 'Lock. I've got something on my phone-" he was hesitant to say 'video' or 'recording', "-that says he is glad you are safe. John loves you. He wants you to be safe, and I will make sure you are safe."

Sherlock pressed his face to Mycroft's chest, shivering with fear and pain. "I don't want...Moran he...I'm s-so tired, My, I'm...p-please don't let J-John send him again." Exhaustion laced with confusion, slurring his words.

Miller came in then with Sherlock's medication, looking at the elder brother to see if it was alright to come close.

Mycroft shook his head at Miller. If Sherlock thought John was sending Moran, it was a bad time for the man to come in. 

"Sherlock, you aren't going to be hurt. By by anyone. John won't send Moran." Mycroft nuzzled down on Sherlock's shoulder. 

Sherlock shook his head and struggled again against the restraints, sobbing pathetically. "Please! Please tell h-him I'm s-sorry, I...I'll show-ssh-show him my sc-scars and h-he can know I've alr-ready been...please! Please!" He was breaking into hysterics, making the monitors blip their warnings as he inadvertently pulled at his stitching, trying to break free in his fear.

"No, Sherlock, no. You won't be hurt. I am here. Would you like some water to drink? Some music? I'm going to keep you safe. I'm here. Do you know who I am? Who's voice do you hear?" Mycroft took Sherlock's face in his hands. 

Sherlock's expression was a mix of cringing fear and deep, aching sadness. 

_"You should have come for me! You're supposed to be clever! You should have come! Every day I expected you to come,"_ John hissed, restored to his corner where he would typically play on the screen. Sherlock groaned in aching sadness. He nodded as much as he could with his face caught up by hands, clearly bracing for pain. 

"He's r-right," Sherlock breathed as tears streamed down his face, accepting what was going to be done. "O-Okay...ok-kay...I...m-my f-fault. I did...I did it t-t-to him I- it w-was me oh god I'm sc-scared p-please just l-let me keep my c-c-clothes I won't f-fight," he cracked, his voice drown out with terrified hyperventilation, heart rate spiked and jaw clenched tight enough to make his head pound. 

Mycroft's stomach churned. "Keep your clothes on, Sherlock. You can keep them on. I don't want you to take off your clothes. You're safe here. Sherlock, please look at me." He dipped his forehead to Sherlock's. "Remember me, Sherlock. It's My. My. I'm Mycroft, and would never hurt you."

Pain was fogging out his ability to understand. The fear ensured he could not. "M-My-c-c-c-roft is my b-b-brother," he whimpered, trying to reach up to his face and sobbing as he was stopped at his bound wrists. He went lax, shaking from head to toe, braced for the pain that was sure to come. 

"M-My is...M-My is...I want my b-brother," he stammered, calling for his sibling as a child often does a mother, " _Please_ , I w-want to go home, please I-" his stomach flexed hard as nausea grabbed hold of him, the pain telling his body to expel and conserve resources. 

"Alright, Sherlock. We can go home. We can go home as soon as you are feeling better." He had a few petty office workers on the furniture, and they would be bringing in the decor soon. The room should be more comfortable soon. 

"Sherlock, I'm here for you. I'm here. It's Mycroft. Mycroft is here!" 

Sherlock's focus abruptly snapped to the man above him, about to counter the idea that his brother was anywhere close when he finally took in his features. His expression dropped and he reached again, wrist caught and focus going directly for the corner where John stood.

"My! My h-help, oh please help, _help me_!" Sherlock's fists balled in panic and the struggled to get free, to get closer to Mycroft and further from the threat. "John w-wants...please help, please t-t-tell him I'm- I c-can't anymore I'm g-going to die. I can't anymore please, oh god p-please!" 

"Okay! Okay, Sherlock. I'll help you. I'm here to help you." He slowly pulled up the head of the bed so Sherlock would feel a bit less vulnerable. "See? I'm here. It's Mycroft, and you are safe. You're so safe." 

Mycroft could feel distress rising in him, and he quickly analyzed it, then changed his tone. "Sherlock, it's Mycroft. Could you tell me where you are?"

Sherlock sobbed and shook his head, looking back at John. "I-I...I'm h-here with...I d-don't know, I don't u-understand! I...w-was shot and then M-Moran h-had me and...J-John is so an-angry. I'm sorry, J-John I'm _sorry_ I- I- p-please don't-" he dragged his eyes away from John, heartbroken, staring back at his brother. "He h-hates me so much. I...I th-think I h-have to g-go away."

"John doesn't hate you." Mycroft decided that he would simply have to work through this with him, no matter how long it lasted. He contradicted each negative thing that Sherlock said with something positive and reassuring. "John loves you. John wants you to be safe. You won't be hurt anymore."

Sherlock managed to turn his hand and grab the tether of the restraint, crying and shaking his head. "H-He used to and I w-w-was too _stupid_ to see it! He used to. I r-ruined it and h-he was taken and-" he choked off, locking up tight as a wave of pain crashed over him, overdue for his medications and slowly beginning to feel the baseline of pain that he'd been in before his rescue. 

Thirst and hunger heightened the disquiet and he closed his eyes, trying desperately to retreat back into his mind. The door would not open to him, leaving him floundering and lost. He whimpered in fear and tried to draw his arm defensively to his chest. "He s-sent them! He sent- I d-don't know how to t-t-tell him how sorry I am!"

"He forgives you. I promise he forgives you. I-" Mycroft searched his mind for some way to help him move past this idea that it was John who sent the doctors. "You could dictate a letter to him. He could write you one, or call you, or text you, or something. He forgives you." 

Mycroft texted Greg quickly. 

_How coherent is John?_

"Sherlock, it's going to be alright. I'm here. I'm sure if you told him you were sorry, he would understand."  
Greg read the text and looked over to John, debating what he should do. John had a fairly quiet morning thus far, munching ice and even making an effort at spoonfuls of juice. A quiet film played on the screen in front of John's chair, and his medications had been given nearly an hour ago. It had been a decent morning. 

_He's calm, I've not pushed him at all today._

Sherlock shook his head and twisted his arms again, flush with panic. "I h-have done, I have done s-so many times and oh g-god, I t-told him I l-loved him and-" his eyes shot open, staring at the spectre of John in the corner, watching as that same betrayed, crestfallen expression painted over John's face. Sherlock groaned his regret, head throbbing as he cried. 

"I don't think that it upset him," Mycroft explained gently. Perhaps it just surprised him. He was confused. Would telling him help? What would you like me to do, Sherlock? Do you need water? Let me help you, alright? Let me help you." 

_Sherlock believes John sent doctors to abuse him._ He texted back in response. 

Mycroft wasn't quite sure what Greg would do with the information, but he knew the man was better at comforting than he. "Sherlock, please listen to me. I'm going to protect you."

Sherlock's brow knit in confusion and he shook his head, "Y-you saw...you saw...h-he blamed me...blames...b-blames me. P-Present tense, c-current. H-e c-can't stand...g-g-god he was s-so...betrayed and th-then..." Sherlock couldn't explain. He knew what he needed to know and he had no idea how to fix it. 

"J-John c-can't even hear m-my name or m-my voice without...he h-hates me. I- I don't want to be t-touched by- I am sc-scared! My I'm _frightened_ , I d-don't know how t-t-to make him st-op s-s-s-sending..." he trailed off, eyes locked to John's, nearly gagging on the nausea and fear. 

Greg read the text and dragged a hand over his face. That was...beyond not good. He looked over to John and then back to the phone. 

"Christ," he muttered under his breath. What the hell were they supposed to do about that. 

_Has he said why he thinks that?_

"Sherlock, why do you think John sent the doctors? He loves you. He cares about you. He's always cared about you. Christ, he shot a man the day after you met to save you." Mycroft wasn't sure how to deal with this confusion other than work with him slowly. How many weeks of this would there be? 

_Asking. He thinks John blames him. And to be fair, he did in a way._

Mycroft swept Sherlock's hair back once more. "'Lock, please, just speak to me."

Sherlock leaned into Mycroft's touch and went still and quiet, trying to put together the chaos in his head. His hands shook on the restraints and he bit at his lip to keep himself quiet. 

"I m-m-made him...m-made him..." he groaned in frightened frustration, trying to articulate, "H-he thinks I...th-thinks I hurt him and he th-thinks I- he knows i-it was my fault this h-happened and he d-doesn't love me anymore. He doesn't l-love me anymore." 

Greg cleared his throat and spoke softly to John. "Hey," he said gently, looking up from the phone, "how are you doing over there?"

Mycroft let out a small, sympathetic sigh and kissed the top Sherlock's head once more. "He doesn't hate you. He still loves you. None of this was your fault, alright? You didn't know. It was Moriarty's fault, and you killed him. You've killed the one who hurt John the most, and he is grateful." 

_As expected, he blames himself for the entire ordeal. He is upset because 'he thinks I hurt him.'_

\---  
John looked up from the movie and gave a small nod. "M'okay. Are you alright?"

Greg ran a hand over his face again, debating what to do. John had struggled so much the last few days, though granted, Sherlock had as well. He held up the phone for a moment before setting it back down. "Sounds like Sherlock is not doing very well," he said honestly, his plan to gauge John's reaction to that. 

\---

Sherlock just held as he was, knowing Mycroft's words were not true. John had never once been glad that Sherlock had taken down Moriarty, simply screaming at him that 'now the others would come.' "I-I'd meant to m-m-make it better but th-that...doing that m-made it worse. I t-tried to take myself o-out too, but he- no. No. _Y-You_ won't l-let me." Any moment he was going to feel the burn of searing metal or the deep, shocking ache of a knife. He weakly tugged at his wrists, shaking hard with pain and confusion.

Mycroft felt the sharp accusation like a barbed needle through his already aching chest. "I know, Sherlock, and I am sorry. I wanted you to stay alive for my own selfish reasons. I thought you could work past it. I never thought that he would come for you. Forgive me."

Sherlock tried to move closer to his brother then, not able to hear him speaking with regret. He turned his face to Mycroft and closed his eyes, trying to breathe and slow down. "Y-You s-saved me, th-there is nothing to f-forgive." 

He turned his focus back to John, who was swiftly sliding into Moran, tensing and shaking his head. "I d-don't know how to te-tell him I'm- oh please, please I c-can't. My he's- My, My help, g-god I'm scared he's h-here, he's _here_!" Sherlock's voice dropped to a panicked whisper as his eyes went wide at the figure across the room.

 

\---

John was sad to hear that Sherlock wasn't feeling well. He always was. It always struck him in a way he didn't expect to hear that Sherlock was in distress. "I...that's not a good thing..." It had been a minimally stressful day, and John didn't particularly want to ruin it, but Sherlock's needs came first. "Should I help him? Should I go back?"

Greg chewed at the inside of his lip and then looked away. "No, John you don't have to go back. He'll...Mycroft will..." he cleared his throat and squeezed the back of his neck, "it's fine. What would you like to do today?

John considered his options. "If Sherlock calls, I'll go there. But...other than that..." he looked up and gave Greg a wide grin. "I want to make you happy. Can we do that? Can we be really, _really_ happy? I'll do anything. I'll do the scary things and then we'll be happy. Please? _Please_?" John looked much like a child asking for a treat, and he looked at Greg with imploring, hopeful eyes. 

Greg tried to give John a decent smile, nodding. "Yeah John, that's fine. We can do that." His fingers flew over the keys.

_I'm so sorry, John isn't going to be any help today._

\---

Mycroft shook his head and turned Sherlock's face away from the blank area of space he seemed to have deemed the figment of his terror was. "Sherlock, he isn't here! That is just your mind. You're having flashbacks. Try looking at me, alright? Just look at me." He leaned over so he blocked Sherlock's line of sight. "Please. Just look at me."

Sherlock stared up at his brother, shivering with the sensation of Moran being just on the other side, egged on by John. "He's n-never going...going to forgive me. I sh-should have died there. I t-tried to die there. I d-deserved to die there. Y-You weren't supposed to g-get me but oh m-my god I'm s-so glad you did. I am a coward." 

Mycroft cast a slightly irate expression at his phone screen. 

_Perhaps just a text. Video. A bit of a note on a napkin. Sherlock is in distress. He thinks he deserved his torture._

Mycroft continued to block Sherlock's view almost stubbornly. "No, no, he forgives you. I promise he forgives you. I am certain of it, and I never am 100% certain of anything." 

_Something along the lines of 'I forgive you.'_

\---

John clapped his hands like a child and scrambled to his feet. He wasn't particularly thrilled about having to do something frightening, but he looked forward to helping Greg. "What do you want me to do?"

Greg swallowed as he read the messages, looking back up at John who was smiling in happy anticipation. He gave John a tight smile, trying to assure him, and stood up as well. "Can you help Sherlock for a few minutes, and then we can do happy things? I wouldn't ask, but Sherlock is...Sherlock needs help." 

John nodded. "I'll do whatever it is. Should I make another video? Or I could..." He pursed his lips and thought. "We could call, or text, or..I don't know. You do the thinking, then we can be happy. I'm glad we get to be happy today." After that one blissful hour, where Greg was proud of him and the world was colorful again, John was eager to scramble back towards it. 

Greg stared at John and forced himself to remember that John was very childlike in his mentality at the moment, and therefore very self focused. He ached for a bit of lucidity on John's part, but that was not to be. He looked down at the phone in his hand and then back to John. "Since you'd rather not interact with him, maybe..maybe a video? He ah, he apparently thinks..." he swept his eyes over John, debating how much to tell him. 

"John," he said after a moment, looking up at him and leaving the height advantage to him, "it's fine if you haven't, okay? Totally fine, I want an honest answer or as honest as you can be. Have you forgiven Sherlock?" 

\----

Sherlock's throat worked as he pinched his eyes closed, pulling hard against the restraints. A thin sheen of sweat covered his face, sticking his curls down, pain making his muscles twitch and jump as they had when he was still in captivity. John's betrayal, the sound of his screaming, twined around his heart. 

"H-He f-f-fears me, h-he has t-t-t-o have a guard with h-him to t-tolerate..." his voice cracked over the grief of it. "I w-want to go back! I w-want to sit at home and l-listen to him p-peck at the keys and I w-want to play for him and-" deep, wrenching sobs stole his words, dragging him down in hysterics, "H-He ha-hates m-m-e, I've lost...l-lost everyth-thing."

Mycroft tried desperately to hush Sherlock and keep him off the slippery slope of panic. "No, he doesn't hate you. He doesn't. I swear. He will learn to overcome his physical responses soon, just like you will. He will love you, and you'll love him, and it'll be alright. Would you like to stay in my house? There are more than enough rooms. You two can live across from each other until we get you situated in the flat."

Sherlock cried next to his brother, ever struggling against the restraints. He'd worn open the thinly healed scabs that wrapped around his wrists, sending stinging pain up his arm as he reddened the cuffs. He wanted Mrs. Hudson, and tea, and oh what he'd pay to be back in his chair with John huffing indulgently at him in his feigned irritation. What he'd do to make that man laugh again. The hurt of loss was overpowering the physical pain and he could hardly breathe through it, utterly unable to respond to Mycroft. 

\----

John's lower lip quivered. He busied himself with rolling up the end of his shirt a few inches in as tight a roll he could, then nervously letting it go. "It wasn't his fault," John said almost robotically. "He couldn't have done anything. He didn't torture me. It was not...hmm..." John let out a stressed sigh and turned his head to the side. "It was not...Sherlock...who...who took me, that was...that was..." John exhaled forcefully. "I forgive him. I just...It's so stupid. I wouldn't have gone if he had just said something. But Moriarty would have gotten me anyway, wouldn't he?" 

\---

Mycroft felt powerless. Helpless. Hapless. Mindless. Witless. He couldn't seem to pull Sherlock out of this, despite his efforts. "Sherlock, please," he muttered once more. "He forgives you. He loves you. John loves you."

_If you could get him saying 'I love you' or 'I forgive you' or 'I don't blame you' or something like that on camera, it could help._

\---

Greg dragged his hand over his hair and tugged at the back slightly. John just wasn't ready. He could get John to say the words but Sherlock would surely see that they were rote and superficial. 

"Yeah, John," he said with a sigh, "he'd have gotten you any- look, why is it exactly that you pulled your tubes and tried to stop him killing himself the first time? You hold him culpable, so why do you still want him around? He's tried several times now to rid you of the problem of dealing with him." 

He responded to Mycroft with slightly shaking hands. 

_I am actively trying._

John’s mind played over Greg’s words. _He's tried several times now to rid you of the problem of dealing_ with him.

John cringed and his mouth flew open. "I didn't...I never wanted him to-to-" John's hands dug into his hair and his fingernails scraped his scalp. "He isn't a problem, Greg, I- oh, no, no, no, nonono..." John dropped his head to his knees. 

"I don't want him to kill himself. I don't hate him. I just get confused and I remember things that didn't happen and I wish he had told me. I 'keep him around' because I don't want him to hurt himself. The-the b-body releases natural opioids when h-hurting...self and helps with mental pain and...and he liked opioids before and I was w-worried-" John found himself tearing at his own skin, doing exactly what he had feared Sherlock would; physically hurting himself to distract and dull the emotional pain. 

Greg reached out and took John's wrists, stopping him from hurting himself. 

"That was a little rough, I'm sorry. I-" he closed his eyes and shook his head, still holding on to John's wrists, "it's not your fault you get confused. That wasn't fair." Irritation wrapped hard around Greg and he knit his brow. He'd always been either deeply empathetic with John, or protective of him, never close to frustrated anger. He'd not seen Sherlock, but for Mycroft to text so frequently for help...

"Sherlock just...apparently he's not doing well today, and Mycroft is telling me that Sherlock thinks you've sent the doctors to ah, to hurt him. He believes he deserves it." In for a penny, he supposed. 

John's eyes widened in shock when he heard what Sherlock believed he had done. "No! Greg, I'd never...never do that, not to Sherlock! Not to anyone! God..." John let his now limp wrists be held by Greg. "I would not do that. Give me your phone. I'll tell him. I'll tell him that I'd never do that." He reached for Greg's pocket. "I'll tell him that I've not sent doctors. Why would he think that? I tried to be nice. I was nice! I tried...oh, I really tried!"

John took a moment to calm himself and spoke again. "I don't hold him culpable. I just...I just wish he had said something before."

Greg handed over the phone as John spoke. "He just..gets lost like you do sometimes and he remembered that you were very upset when you left last time, and then he heard that you suggested an exam -and rightly so for you to have done, he was very injured- his mind has decided to tell him that you want him to hurt. It's not your fault, John, just like it isn't his when you are scared. You were nice. You were." 

He looked at John for a moment, anticipating the train wreck, not sure how to stave it off. 

John got the video working and gave the camera a very stern look, just as he used to when Sherlock was stepping on a frayed nerve. 

"Listen," he said without any sugar or greeting. "I didn't send any damn doctors to hurt you. I wouldn't do that. I don't want you to think I did that because I didn't." He was scowling slightly, looking angry, but once he caught sight of himself in the camera he softened. 

"Sorry...I just...I really didn't send them, alright? I get confused too, but the doctors haven't hurt me here. I wouldn't send doctors to hurt you because I don't want you to be hurt. I pulled my own tubes out trying to help you when I saw you hurting yourself on the monitor. I don't care if you're cross with me, but I'll not have you thinking I send people to hurt you." It was blunt, slightly harsh, and respective, but John wanted to be sure. He sounded a bit like his old self, back when he'd fuss at Sherlock to eat or clean up a festering injury. 

Greg took the phone back, staring at the screen. He looked up at John and then back down, running a hand over the back of his neck. Sherlock was, since his return, exceedingly sensitive to John's mood and voice. This was much rougher than he'd been expecting. He exhaled slowly and pecked out a text to Mycroft. 

_I've gotten him to speak on camera. Be warned it's not...gentle. If Sherlock needs gentle, this isn't going to help._

He sent the message and immediately after he sent the video, looking back up to John. "I don't know if Mycroft will show it to him, but uh, but thank you for trying." 

John crossed his arms. He was angry now, though he knew he had no right to be. "I'm fucking trying," he snapped and rested his chin on his knees. "I didn't send any god damned doctors!" John didn't know why he was so offended. Sherlock is confused. I thought he raped me and tortured me and he didn't get mad. 

"I'm trying to be good to him." John couldn't imagine what prompted him to anger when he so clearly understood the situation and had total empathy with Sherlock's confusion and fear. "I didn't send. Any. God. Damned. Doctors." John's voice was halting and awkward. 

_He needs gentle, I believe. He thinks John is angry with him. Something kind would help. I can't watch it without him seeing. What is it?_

Greg immediately responded. 

_Don't watch it then. John is very direct and stern. He's...I'm trying. Is Sherlock okay?_

Greg went down to the floor in front of John and leaned forward, not touching him, not while he was angry. "You understand that I know you didn't want to hurt him, and I know you didn't send the medical team to hurt him, right? I know that. Mycroft knows that. Sherlock is just...I could explain it, but it is likely to upset you. He needed a lot of medical intervention and it hurt, still hurts, and he's confused." 

\---

Down the hall, Sherlock was sick with crying. A thin line of blood slipped from his extremely irritated nose, the high level of his blood pressure not helping at all.. He was in complete distress, face a wet, blotchy mess as he sobbed in terrible confusion, occasionally looking over his shoulder to see John betrayed and enraged in the corner. He turned his face back to Mycroft, working his wrists into a bloody mess, ears sharply ringing and head splitting from the prolonged mix of fear and grief. 

\---

"Don't withhold information because you think it will upset me!" John could tell what had happened from Greg's summary. "He had an exam, and they found things to correct, now he thinks they're raping him?" 

John crossed his ankles and tightened his grip on his knees out of habit. "I should...I should try again. I'm angry. I don't know why I'm angry...but I'm sad and angry. Not at him, I don't think. Just..." John's anger and bitterness wasn't a torch with a single focal target. It was a burning sun, casting rays in all directions, burning anything close. "I'll try again. Give me the phone."

\---

Against his better judgement, Mycroft once again unclasped Sherlock's wrist and placed it across his chest. He kept hold of his hand to prevent him from hurting himself "It's Mycroft. My. My. My. My is here. It's My." He said his own name in hopes it would catch Sherlock's attention. 

Sherlock turned his hand, spreading fire through his raw wrist, and clutched at Mycroft's shirt as he cried, dizzy and sweat-slicked, shivering hard. 

\---

Greg shook his head, pocketing his phone. "You're too angry right now. It's alright that you are angry, but let's get through this before you try again. If you still want to in a few minutes, that's fine. He's not doing well right now and it would be better to hear nothing than to see you angry. Paul explained to me that Sherlock..." he shook his head, not particularly wanting to go into it. "I mean, John, you have to know that it was literally killing him to not be able to help you when you first were recovered. He drove himself to madness, back on the heroin, dropped half a stone, was just...when he was taken by Moran he'd just collapsed, had been in hospital the day before...was already very down. He blames himself exclusively for what was done to you. He believed Moran was going to kill him, and feels guilt that Moran did not. He...it hurt you when he told you that he loves you, and I know you know that, and I know it wasn't your intent. I don't think he remembers much of your last conversation. Only me protecting you, and then the doctors coming, and then the pain. He doesn't know he's had an exam, John." 

He did not particularly like explaining this bit. "He ah, he just knows there is pain...Mycroft has been waiting for him to stop panicking to tell him. He just knows you wanted doctors to see him. He keeps circling that he didn't tell you soon enough...if it's guilt you need him to feel, he's feeling it. Trust me, John, much as you wish he'd said something sooner, so does he." 

John processed the information slowly. His mind wasn't organized like Sherlock or Mycroft. He couldn't see rows of information on nice little sheet, put in mental file cabinets. What he had instead was a jumbled word and phrase cloud. 

"He...he thinks I sent them to assault him because he failed to die? Or because I blame him? Or because he said he loved me?" John tipped over sideways so he was lying on the soft carpet in the fetal position, which was the only way he could lie down comfortably without being heavily medicated or held. 

"I'm not Moriarty! I don't punish people! I wasn't mad that he loved me! I wasn't upset that he finally said it, just that it didn't come sooner." 

John sank his fingernails on his left hand into the boney flesh on the back of his right. "Please, give me the phone. I'll try again. I need to explain. I'll not be angry this time."

\---

Mycroft was at a loss for what to do without John's assistance. There was only so much he could do, and even though the man was far from stable, Sherlock always woke for John. 

_Just a short 'I forgive you' or 'I miss you.' 'I love you' would be ideal. Anything at this point will work, though._

"John," Greg said quietly, scooting forward again and taking John's hands so that he couldn't hurt himself. "You can squeeze the life out of my fingers, but don't hurt yourself. Now listen to me. Sherlock is not thinking clearly, it's coincidentally very much like you were when Sherlock rescued you. You were sure he'd done everything to you, and Jesus, John, please hear me, okay? You had far more reason to think that. I just...Sherlock is only seventeen days back. He's still carrying bruises and...it's clear that Moran had him the last day Sherlock was there, and likely every day of that last week. He's just afraid, and he was already...already banished from seeing you before he was even taken. Do...you remember watching him on the little telly? When he played for you, or when you wrote and he texted? Any of that? I think it's just a mix of all the things you mentioned, he's afraid of all those things. It's not your fault, okay? You didn't do this to him." 

He handed John the phone, keeping hold of one wrist. "I know you would never hurt him. He's just lost, okay? He's just lost." 

\---

It was Miller who next texted Mycroft, though. 

_He's an hour past due for medications. I am certain he is in a great deal of pain. As soon as he can tolerate it, I'd like to dose him again._

Mycroft sighed as he read the text, responding as fast as he could with Sherlock in his arms as he was. 

_Just come in. He's not in a good place right now. John is looking like a dead end for the day, unfortunately._

Sherlock began to scream as soon as he caught sight of Miller, very nearly blacking out with the shock of adrenalin through his extremely taxed system. "Y-You s-said I was safe! PLEASE!" Sherlock was in chaotic panic, twisting against Mycroft to get his back away from Miller, not that it would stop him but, "PLEASE! G-God, t-t-t-ttell J-J- oh pl-please d-don't! Tell J-J-John I'm s-s-sor- no, nonono _nono!_ " his words fell away as he watched Miller inject something into his line, feeling the blanketing rush of heavy painkillers. He choked and dragged his hand up, clamping it over his mouth with enough force to bruise, trembling terribly. 

Mycroft simply clung to Sherlock. It was clear his shouts and soothing weren't getting through at all, and keeping Sherlock from hurting himself was about all he was good for. When Sherlock covered his mouth, he tried again to reassure him, though without much hope. "No, none of that. Nobody will do anything bad to you. You're safe. Who am I?"

\---

John wasn't handling the information well. "I-If I were stronger," he began, grief overtaking anger like a flood, "And I-I learned h-how to be with him faster, before he was taken, I-I...he wouldn't be hurting as much. I know it. I know that if I was able to hold him like you hold me, he'd feel better. I've been working on eating..." John let out a bitter laugh. "What the fuck do I need eating for? I don't need to eat. I need to help Sherlock. Please, Greg, just tell me what he needs to hear. I won't say lines. He'll know. He'll know if it's lines. But if I know what he needs, I can say the truth that helps." 

John fiddled with the phone, and eventually went back to watch his own video. A few seconds in, however, he stopped it. His own voice sounded foreign and strange, his face alien, and his tone far too harsh and broken despite the fact that he was speaking reassuring words. "What does he need?"

Greg held John's wrist gently and spoke as quietly as he could. "To know he's not despised. To know...I don't know, John. He's scared of all the things you listed, believes all the things you suggested. What...what do you think is best?" 

How does one express that another isn't despised? Love? John wasn't sure if he loved Sherlock the way Sherlock wanted to be loved. He knew he used to, that he would have done anything to know that his affections were returned, but now he wasn't sure. 

In Hebrew, there are several different words for love. Three of which, raya, ahava, and dod, are the most common. Raya is the love of friendship, the platonic but nonetheless strong bond between two people who care about each other. Ahava is the love of commitment, sacrifice, and hard work. It is often found in marriage and keeps two people together despite hardship. Dod is the physical and intimate aspect, meant to be the last to be encountered in a relationship. John knew he still retained the ahava aspect towards Sherlock. He cared a great deal. He was willing to sacrifice his own comfort and well being to help him. But the other, friendship and intimacy, were gone. 

John stared into the rolling camera for several moments before speaking again. "I...I am sorry that you're sad and I don't blame you for what happened and I didn't send doctors and...and I want you to feel better. Okay? I..." John had intended on keeping the message short and sweet. He had wanted to avoid rambling and keep himself on task. But once started, it was difficult to stop.

"I'm lost. I'm sad, and tired and I get confused so easily. I want you to be okay. I know that. I need you to be safe more than I need myself to be safe. I...I'd go back to keep you safe. I would. I...I don't know what that means; but it just is. Please, I didn't send doctors to hurt you. I would never let anyone hurt you. I want to keep you safe. I..." John's insides squeezed painfully. He knew he loved Sherlock, but wasn't sure if the man would agree with his _how_. "I love you, alright? Don't be worried that I'm sending anyone, because I'm not." John looked about the room then and back to the camera. He waved and abruptly pressed stop.

Greg took the phone and swiftly replied to Mycroft. 

_This may help._

He attached the video and held tight to John's wrist, whispering softly, "That was very kind of you. I didn't think you still loved him. That was...I think that will help." 

John scowled. "I don't know if I do. It's confusing. It's...why else would I do all these things for him? If I didn't love him, why would I care if he killed himself? It's not because I'm a nice person. Not anymore. I'll kill any number of those guards to protect you or Sherlock. It's...I don't know."

\---

Sherlock just lay there, his back turned as much toward Mycroft as possible, sobbing behind his hand as he stared at Miller. He slowly turned his head, looking at Mycroft for a moment before looking back to the doctor, openly afraid. "M-My...I'm...p-please just tell him to triple it. I c--can't...please let me go...I c-can't an-anymore."

Mycroft shook his head. "I can't let you go. John needs you, remember?" He would play that card until it ceased having effect, or perhaps until it actually angered Sherlock. "Here, Sherlock, look. John sent a video. Would you like to see it? He won't be sad or hurting." 

Sherlock lay there, staring up at Mycroft's phone as John's message played. He kept his hand over his mouth, staring at the broken man speaking into the camera. John was...Sherlock could not get a fix on him. He looked to the side, at John standing there in the corner, angry and in command of Moran, who was still just there in the room watching Sherlock's monitors. He looked back to the phone and played the message again, and then again, something twisting deep into his heart when John said that he loved him. There was nothing to it, no conviction, no depth. 

"H-he's afraid. He's afraid, M-My. Who's...wh-who is m-making him..." he looked back over to John in the corner and gagged behind his hand, struggling with himself. His voice was anguished when he spoke. "I w-want to see him! If he d-doesn't blame me...if he doesn't w-want me hurting and dead...why...why won't he s-see me? I just...w-want to see..." he broke down again, trying to loop John's words. "He did send th-the doctors! I'm...I've seen the sheets! I HURT he sent them! He sent them and they-" he shouted and then broke down crying once again, shaking his head. "It doesn't m-make sense, I d-don't...he's s-s-so sad I-"

\---

Down the hall, Greg nodded to John. "It's okay if you don't know. I think he'll understand that from the video. Thank you for making that, can..can I hold you for a moment?"

John didn't need to be asked twice. "Of course you can," he muttered and got up from the floor. He almost threw himself into Greg's arms and slowly let himself relax. 

\---

Mycroft hushed Sherlock softly. "I know he's scared, but that isn't his fault. Nobody is making him say anything. I promise. He said that he didn't send the doctors. He said that he loves you. Please, believe him. He is trying so hard."

_Is he well enough to be brought in? If so, do not delay._

Greg wrapped his arms around John, pulling him right into his lap and tucking John's head down against his shoulder as he began to rock them gently. "I know this is exhausting, and incredibly difficult, and frightening. I am sorry for my behavior, John. I am trying my best, I'm scared for him and I took it out on you. I'm sorry." 

He read the text, resting his hand on John's back as he thumbed through the message. Mycroft had never requested John with haste. His heart skipped a beat and he squeezed John to his chest, setting the phone to the side before sliding his fingers through John's hair. 

"He wants to see you," he said quietly. "You don't have to go, I just wanted to tell you. You've asked me not to withhold information."

John was very still in Greg's lap for a few moments while he weighed his options. If Sherlock was asking to see him, he would not refuse him. But the insecurities still lingered like a pestering swarm of hornets and drove his thoughts away. "I don't want to hurt him. I really, _really_ don't want to end up hurting him more than if I had stayed. You've got to stop me if I'm saying the wrong thing." 

John had his eyes closed and his face pressed against the side of Greg's neck. It was a safe place for him to be. "I'll need the stuff again. I can't smell him. He smells like bad things." John could now hear the childlike voice with which he spoke, and tried once more. 

"He...the way he smells reminds me of...of things, things that occurred...that were bad...and I know it wasn't him but it still _smelled_ like him..."

Greg nodded, wrapping a hand around the back of John's neck as his thumb swept soothingly over the skin at his nape. "That's fine, John. That's fine. We will use that, and I'll give you your anxiety medication, and it's going to be okay. I've never seen Mycroft be so...urgent. I think you may really be able to help Sherlock here. Just keep in mind that it sounds like he's really very afraid and confused, okay?" 

He drew back and gave John a brushed kiss to his temple. "You are an incredible man." 

Five minutes later, Greg had John swallowing four tablets in preparation of a very hard situation, and the menthol under his nose. John was tucked in his wheelchair at Greg's insistence, he did not want John using his energy for anything else. John's favorite blanket was tucked over the back of the chair and Greg easily navigated them through security. He paused outside of Sherlock's room, listening for screaming and relaxing slightly when he was greeted only with quiet. "Ready?" He asked John, squeezing his shoulder. 

Sherlock clung to his brother, doing his best to ignore Miller as he lay there trembling, soaking the sheets under him now in his fear, his shirt clinging to his thin chest as he sweat profusely. He was out of tears, dehydrating himself despite the fluids, though his breathing was still catching on hitching sobs. "H-Help," he breathed from time to time, listening to John berate him for being late, for being a fool, grinding Sherlock's culpability into him like salt in a festering wound. 

John peered cautiously around the corner as if unsure what to expect. "Uhm...Hello," he all but whispered and wheeled himself closer. Each ordeal, each time they had to load him onto the chair, get his medicine, blankets and menthol, made him feel like he was going off into some awful battle. With one more furtive look back to Greg, John wheeled himself right up to the edge of the bed. 

Mycroft scooted back a bit and swept the hair out of Sherlock's face. "Hey, Sherlock. Look, John is here. John's here to see you."

John gave a small smile and waved. "Hey, Sherlock. I'm here." 

Sherlock slowly turned, his eyes swollen and nearly closed, braced for more anger and not understanding entirely that this was a different John than the angry specter in the corner. His voice was cracked and broken as he just began to babble, speaking as he had before, hitching and randomly halting from the force of his prolonged crying. 

"I- I...I'm-m s-sorry, oh p-please, J-John p-please...I...j-just..." he stopped and let go of Mycroft, his hand going to his neck as he dug at the dressing, hating himself for not managing to bite deeper into the vasculature. 

"H-how do I m-m-make you un-d-stand I...wh-what do I n-n-need to s-say please d-d-on't send th-them it _h-hurts_ , please! J-John, pl-please!" 

Mycroft pulled Sherlock's hand away and held it tight. "Don't hurt yourself, 'Lock."

John looked terrified. He didn't know how to deal with the sudden apologies, and every instinct in him bid him to shrink back into Greg's arms and leave. "I didn't send them." John said firmly and slowly stood. He wrapped his blanket around his shoulders and held it with one hand, as he used to during cold mornings when he had a mug in the other. 

"I didn't send doctors to hurt you. I didn't. I know it hurts. You had an exam. I don't...I know its bad. But it's over. Please," he took a hesitant step closer and looked down at Sherlock. "I didn't send anyone to hurt you. I don't want you to be hurt."

Sherlock turned his focus back to John, blinking slowly as he focused on him. He watched Greg move slowly to John's back. Greg stepped forward cautiously, standing behind John and to his side, his arm slung across John's shoulder blade and down to rest on his hip. Sherlock returned his focus to John's face, studying him. 

"Y-you," he whispered, slowly coming back to himself as he took in the sharp differences between the corporeal man and the shadow in the corner, which his eyes flicked between, finally resting on the proper John. "I...I m-miss you," he breathed, stark terror melting to sadness. "I w-watched it all, John...I s-saw...you gave them s-such hell for s-s-so long, so much longer th-than I did." 

He swallowed and closed his eyes. "I g-got lost, I thought you w-were being made to s-say..." 

Greg tightened his grip on John, shifting the blanket on John's shoulders, wanting to help support him. Sherlock looked horrific, small and terrified, broken. Greg pulled John into the pocket of his shoulder, keeping as close as he could. 

Sherlock watched the pair of them as he forced himself to look. He was quiet for a minute before giving a small nod. "I kn-know you don't l-love me anymore. Th-that's okay," he managed, chin quivering as he pushed past the heartbreak. "thank you f-for f-f-" he stopped as a violent sob cracked free of his chest and he had to catch his breath, "for-giving m-me. A-Are...are y-you...w-w-will you be o-okay with Greg? I...will y-you take the m-music with you, at l-least? I can't play a-anymore, that's all th-there is..." 

John's wide, glassy eyes and worried expression made his face far younger and more vulnerable than it had been in years. Sherlock's terrified state, his panicked voice and confused words, all hammered at John like heavy rounds. He very slowly leaned forward, unwilling to step but hoping to help, and put his hand over Mycroft and onto Sherlock's shoulder. "I know you get lost. I understand that, and I get lost too, but..." John turned his head to the side and shut his eyes. 

It was another minute before he could continue. Sherlock's voice was different, broken, cracked and hoarse, but it was still that _voice._

_It was just tapes. Sherlock wasn't there. This voice does not mean pain._

John opened his eyes and shook his head. "I wasn't strong. Not at all. I...He told me what he was going to do to you. He told me that I was going to ruin you by hating you. It was all my fault.I shouldn't have waited. I tried to escape! I really did!" He pulled up the bottom of his shirt just an inch to show a particularly nasty burn. "I really did try. Sometimes, I thought I'd escaped, but it was a trick, and...And...Sometimes a police officer would come in, and I thought I was safe, but then I wasn't safe and-" John closed his eyes again.

"I don't hate you, though. He wanted me to. He really wanted me to. I was afraid, but I couldn't...I didn't want you to hurt me, but I never hated..." John had been so willing to forgive Sherlock, even during the blind terror. 

"But then you...well, it was Moran, but..." 

John stopped himself. He was going down a road that wouldn't help Sherlock in the least. "I'll be okay. I've the music. I want to help you, though. How should I help you? I do still love you. I promise. I'd never send doctors."  
Sherlock watched, hardly breathing, as John turned away from him. 

_He's still afraid of me._

His fingers blanched over Mycroft's where his brother stopped him from hurting himself, stomach rolling and very nearly sicking up. Oh, how it hurt. 

And then John was lifting his shirt and Sherlock's ears began to ring, shrill and loud, drowning out John's voice as he recalled in perfect detail the footage of those specific injuries. He was gasping, ready to plead mercy, tears brimming and spilling over his lashes. "Y-You w-w-were strong," he managed, his voice splitting and falling apart as he tried to soothe John, "I s-saw e-everything they did t-t-to you. You _w-were_ strong, are strong. I..." 

He had to stop, trying to drag in deep, desperate breaths. "G-Go home with Greg an-and t-take the music. Be h-happy. T-tell...please t-tell My that you don't n-need me anymore so I c-can go now, p-please." 

John was caught in an evil loop. 

_I don't want to be alive._

_I am alive to help Sherlock._

_Sherlock does not want to be alive._

_Sherlock is because he thinks I need him._

John let out a small whine and looked to Greg for help. "I wasn't strong," he retorted. "Not strong. I was weak. I thought it was you. I thought...How could I think that? I know you wouldn't hurt me. If you saw..." John clamped a hand over his mouth. 

"You saw all...you saw the things that..." John abruptly held out his arm where the spike marks, the ones he could inflict on himself to avoid having to please Moran, were lined down his forearm. "See? I tried not to, please...I'm sorry. I-I-" John turned red with shame and turned away, back to Greg. "I'm s-sorry!"

Sherlock stared at them, his chest fluttering as stars cracked across his vision. He'd not meant to upset John. "J-" he abruptly stopped himself, trying to think. His mind was a complete mess, no organization or control to it. He closed his eyes, hearing them through cotton as he struggled to keep from blacking out. He knew of the pins and frankly envied them. He'd not been given a choice. It was pain medication and then the bill due. Or it was random, Moran venting his frustration or boredom. 

"Sh-should I...if-f you are s-s-sorry what does th-that make me? I know you f-fought. M-Mycroft h-has my tapes if i-i-it would e-even..." His ribs hitched over another sob and he turned his face away from the men, deeply envious and lonely. 

"'M s-sorry I...I sh-shouldn't have asked to s-see you I thought...I w-won't bother you again. I just want you t-to be happy. I tr-tried to m-make it right. I'll....my l-legs and my h-hands and my b-body...I..he t-took...I couldn't e-even f-fight he just...I hopped...h-hopped if he h-hurt me too that it w-w-would m-make it...I know I d-deserve this, John." 

Greg tightened his grip on John, sliding his fingers into John's hair and holding him to his shoulder. 

John didn't need Sherlock any longer. He obviously didn't want Sherlock any longer. There were oceans between not wanting someone to hurt and caring for someone. He flicked his eyes to Mycroft and then back down to the heartbroken man on the bed, biting his lip to keep his own chin still. It was so horrific he could hardly stand it. Sherlock sacrificed himself, John was taken at no fault of his own, and now it looked like they'd lost one. 

Sherlock itched to pull at his neck and Greg finally realized what he was looking at. He'd not had a wound there before. Without thinking Greg spoke, "Your neck...Sherlock, no, Sherlock. I...I still love you," he whispered, his own voice unsteady. 

Sherlock turned his face to his brother, unable to endure pity. "J-John please t-tell them you don't need me a-anymore." 

John was frozen. His breath froze in his lungs and his heart seemed to struggle to keep up with his panicked thoughts. Sherlock wanted to die. Sherlock clearly had tried to kill himself, didn't want to be here, and thought himself worthless. John wanted to die. He was alive for the sole purposes of helping Greg and helping Sherlock. 

Either way, he lost. If he told Sherlock that he needed him, he would be forcing the man to stay alive. 

If he told Sherlock that he wasn't needed, he would likely find some way to kill himself. 

If Sherlock died, and his purpose was gone, John would ask Greg to let him go, which would hurt Greg. 

And, if he told Sherlock that he was needed, John would have to stay alive himself. 

John saw no way out of it. Each decision was hurting someone. There was absolutely nothing he could do that didn't hurt _someone_ , including himself. Even if he did what Sherlock asked and told them he was no longer needed, it would hurt him terribly. It would hurt John as well. But could he force a tortured man to live? The hopelessness of the situation rose over John's head like a rushing high tide and he didn't even bother trying to swim against it. 

His knees locked and he stood staring at the edge of Sherlock's bed absently. "Greg?" he whispered and pulled the man closer to whisper in his ear. " _I give up."_

Greg tore his focus away from Sherlock, having made John his priority months ago. He pulled him into his arms and moved John away, putting him back in the wheelchair. He was intent on taking John away, leaving Sherlock in tears at his back. 

Sherlock called out desperately, "I..I'm s-s-sorry, John! I...it's j-just you. I have n-nothing else, n-never had anything but you. I'm l-lost now, I'm...I'm lost." His voice faded down to a whisper, as though reminding himself of what was no longer there. "I'm sorry," he managed again, staring at Greg's back, grief so overwhelming it pushed him past tears. "All of it. E-everything that...I sh-should have been brave enough to tell you before Africa. I failed you, John. N-None of this is your f-fault. I w-was so fortunate to e-ever know you. I'm s-so sorry you cannot say the same." 

Greg froze, leaning over John as he pushed him down into the chair, wrapping him tight in his blankets. He crouched down after a moment, pressing a shaking hand over his eyes. With fresh resolve he looked up at John, whispering, "I love you," before getting up and looking to Mycroft. "Come on," he said roughly, looking between Sherlock and John, "these men have got to have this out. We've gone in circles, and circles, and circles and we've come too damned far to lose anyone. Mycroft, come on," he repeated, motioning to the door, intent to leave John and Sherlock on their own for a while, outcome be damned. Both men wanted to die, how could they possibly fuck it up worse?

Mycroft put Sherlock's wrist back into the restraint before he left. He hated doing it, but it would be foolish to leave him in a volatile situation and give him the ability to hurt himself. He walked with Greg out the door, shutting it behind him. "This could be catastrophic," Mycroft asserted, none to gently, as soon as they were out the door. 

John whimpered and reached out for Greg as he left. "No, NO! Greg! Don't leave me!" His face was a visage of sheer horror; eyes wide, face devoid of all color, mouth open in a strangled cry. "Don't! I'm sorry! I'm sorry! I-I-I love you! Please come back!" John dropped his head into his hands and tore at his scalp. The blanket was pulled over his head and he tucked his knees to his chest on the chair. It took quite some time of rocking, muttering, and reminding himself that he was safe with Sherlock before he peered out of the blanket, eyes wet with tears. 

Sherlock lay on his back, motionless, wondering what he was paying penance for as he listened to John's terror. Terror that sourced from _him_. He dared not make a sound, nearly biting through his lip in his effort to keep from sobbing loudly. He closed his eyes as fear wrapped around his lungs, seizing them up. It was hard to remember where he was with John begging and crying in his room, his own wrists strapped down, pinned to the table where he could do nothing to help. 

"I made him leave," John lamented to Sherlock. "I can't do this right. I'm failing. I want to help you and you want to die and I need you to not die and this all just _hurts_."

And then John was speaking. Not screaming for help, not crying out in agony, just sadly bemoaning his failure to Sherlock. He carefully cracked his eyes open, expecting to see Moran lording over him, finding only John hiding in a blanket across the room. 

He answered in a breathless whisper, struggling to project his voice with fear and grief sitting so heavily on his chest. "N-no you didn't. You d-d-didn't make him leave...he's s-surely just the other s-s-side of the door," he whispered gently, dizzy from crying. 

"I d-d-don't want to die. I just c-cannot...cannot endure th-the loss. I'm a weaker m-man than you are John." He stared up at the ceiling. "Th-this room has eighteen tiles...not twelve...a-and the building is n-n-newer," he absently remarked, shifting and suddenly crying out as pain ripped up the side of his body, shocking him and leaving him shaking. 

He turned his focus back to John, tears sliding over his cheeks. "I...I u-understand how h-he made you scared. I'm sorry I c-cannot change my voice. I'll n-never...n-never ever wear the c-coat again. I'm...g-god I'm s-s-s-so sorry he put his hands on you."

John muttered something into his knees and shut his eyes. He looked up suddenly when Sherlock said he didn't want to die. "You don't? Oh, god, why then do you want me to tell Mycroft I don't need you? Why...Why that?" He pointed to the bandage on Sherlock's neck. He had memorized every cut on Sherlock's body before, and that one was new. 

"I don't like it when Greg leaves. Nothing bad happens when Greg is protecting me. Nothing bad. But...I..." John put his hands in his hair and pulled viciously. 

He flinched at Sherlock's cry and his eyes cast furtive glances around the room in search of danger. "I'm stuck. If I die, then you and Greg will go with me. If you die, which you...you said...If you die, I'll die, then Greg will too...And..If you live, you'll be sad, and I'll have to stay alive..and I don't know what I want. Just...Just tell me what to do. Tell me what you want me to do and I'll do it. Let me help you somehow. It's all I've got."

Sherlock closed his eyes and held his breath for a moment. "I told...t-told you I....b-because I know I've...I know, John that you will always be scared of me. That you will always resent me. Y-You...I've lost you. I'm so v-very glad that Greg is helping, that he loves you and y-you love him. I'm nothing without you. I never was before I met you and I won't be now. I...you were the only person who could s-stand me and...I won't be able to work. I won't be able to play. I'll b-be lucky if I ever walk again. I h-have nothing without you, and if-f I die...I thought...it...it would m-make living easier for you. I d-deserved this...all of it...every...everything. But you? Y-You should live, you deserve peace."

John shook his head against Sherlock's statements and put his hands over his ears. "No. No. No. That's not how it works. I'm not heartless! You should know that. You always said had too much heart and not enough brain. You said it was why I couldn't ever 'reach objectivity'. If you die, I'll be sad. I'll die too. Do you know why I am here? Not in this room, but _here_?" 

John stood up and took a step closer to Sherlock's bed nervously. His voice was growing stronger, but his posture was still broken, slouching, and borderline cowering. "I am here because Greg said you needed me. I was going to die, Sherlock. I was going to leave. If you die, I will too. That is what you will have to live with if you get to leave. I don't get to leave without knowing, and you don't either. I can't leave without hurting you and Greg, and you can't leave without hurting me and Greg." John crossed his arms and gave Sherlock a stern look. There would be no more illusions. 

Sherlock stared at John, his fingers twisting around the lead that held his restraint in place, trying to absorb what John was saying. "Y-You...y-y-you would be s-s-s-sa-d if I..." he blinked as his heart clenched up in his chest, hope sparking to life where he knew it should not. "B-but you...you blame m-me. You...you c-can't st-stand me how...I th-thought it would h-help you sleep better if I...y-you're so sc-scared of me and...and y-you wanted them t-to come after...a-after I asked to s-see you last time, and I'm...th-they h-hurt me and- a-and-" he closed his eyes, dragging in a desperate breath. 

"What do I do then, J-John? Wh-What's left f-for me? You h-have Greg. I am a-alone. A-Always alone. W-what do you want m-m-me to do?"

"NO!" John shouted and stood over him. "I did not send them! I didn't! Sherlock, why would I send doctors after you? I don't like them! I don't want them near you! I wouldn't sleep better if you were dead. I would be sad. I'm sorry they hurt you, but I didn't send them!" John balled his hands into fists for a moment, but his anger soon dissipated. It dissolved into sorrow and he dropped his head down. "Oh, I'm sorry. I'm sorry it's just...I just don't know what I am supposed to do. You aren't alone. Look at you! You're surrounded by the people who care about you. I don't want you to do anything. I just want to help."

Sherlock had drawn back, shying away from John as his eyes flicked between the man standing there in anger at his side and the shadowy figure in the corner. He whimpered under his breath, testing the limits of the restraints in an effort to protect himself. When John gentled, Sherlock exhaled in relief, head spinning as the fear abated. 

"N-no, John, there isn't anyone here who cc-can stand me outside of my b-brother and he is growing s-swiftly tired of me as well. Th-they said you said I sh-should...I d-didn't want anyone to...m-my clothes are...I n-n-need to k-k-keep them and...My...My s-s-said don't have t-to pay for the medicine any m-more but th-they keep..." he trailed off in confusion, staring at John in grieved distress. 

Sherlock's panic touched John and pulled empathy from his guarded mind. "I'm _going to help you_." John repeated the phrase as if it was the answer to everything. He knew he would eventually dissolve into chaos, and one more furtive glance to the door told him that Greg was still not in the room. 

"Greg will come back, right?" John asked nervously. He kept his eyes on the door, but slowly stepped closer so his legs brushed against the side of the bed. "I am going to help you. I'll make sure you keep your clothes on. I'll make sure. I'll kill anyone who tries to hurt you. I'll kill them. If anyone comes for you, I'll hurt them." John sat on the edge of the bed, facing at an angle that was half to the door and half to Sherlock. "I'll make sure they don't. If anyone is hurting you, like you say, I'll find something to stab them with."

Sherlock bit down in the inside of his lip, gnawing at the line of stitches and oddly comforted by the blood in his mouth. John's disposition was frightening him, though the offer of protection was deeply appreciated. 

"H-he'll c-c-come back," he breathed through his fear, staring up at John, "a-and you'll l-l-leave and-" his breathing hitched and he turned his face away, knowing that whatever this was was temporary, and John would leave, and the only outcome was that he no longer had an out. His best hope was heroin. He could picture himself a year from now, invalid in his brother's home, bored and lonely to the point of insanity. 

John shook his head. "Greg will come in and protect you too. I didn't send any doctors, and I'll prove it. You aren't allowed to die without taking both me and Greg with you." 

Now that he said it, John was far less worried about it happening. "So you might as well just kill the two of us first." No, he wasn't worried. As long as John could convince Sherlock that dying wouldn't help him, he had a chance at keeping the man alive. 

"I'll stay here until you believe that I didn't send any damn doctors."

Sherlock flinched and shook his head. "O-okay...J-John okay, I'm s-sorry. You...y-you didn't...y-you didn't s-s-send them." His heart was suddenly racing, palms sweating as he stared at John. He turned his eyes to the corner, jerking back violently as Moran laughed at him, advancing with a wrench. 

"P-Please," he breathed, trying to pull away, deeply frightened and confused. "Wh-what do y-you want me t-tt-to say? I'll s-say-" he whimpered and slammed his eyes shut, breathing too fast, braced for whatever pain was going to be directed at him. 

"This isn't training, Sherlock." John said very softly. Shifting to face him, he leaned slightly over Sherlock and hesitantly touched his face. He reached out as one would reach into the mouth of a crocodile or pit-bull. After his fingers touched his terrified friend's cheek, he relaxed visibly. _This doesn't hurt._

John could easily recall how soothing it was when Greg touched his face. John was always nuzzling his face down on Greg's shoulder or neck to seek the comfort it brought. "What do you want me to do?" He asked and cupped Sherlock's cheek. 

Sherlock's heart rate swiftly slowed down now that he wasn't left tied down and distanced from grounding, safe touch. He leaned into John's hand and exhaled a violently shaking breath. "D-don't hate me, I c-can't bear it. Please...please forgive m-me I should h-have sent y-you away when I fell in l-love." 

His breathing hitched and he looked back to Moran, groaning in fear. "He never...n-never leaves...always h-here, I...g-god he hurts."

John brushed his thumb over Sherlock's cheek. "I don't hate you. I promise I don't hate you. I'm sorry I flinched when you said that...I didn't expect it and I was confused and I didn't believe you. It hurt because I thought..." 

John's breath hitched and he spoke in a whisper to avoid stammering. "I prayed you would come for me, and I swore that you were on your way and...when I learned you weren't...I _knew_ it was because you were tricked, but I felt like it was because you really just didn't care."

Sherlock kept his eyes on Moran as sweat matted his hair to his forehead, listening to John speak. "I kn-knew when...when we were in the hospital...I knew...I b-beat that man nearly to death and I...I w-went to _him_ t-to keep you...to...I'd...wh-when you were still...when you wouldn't s-see me I tried to f-find Moriarty. He t-taunted me, told me h-he would f-fix you and I c-couldn't...I couldn't f-fix you and then I t-t-tried to let you go but I c-couldn't keep my hands still and you _loathed me_ and I...I t-t-tried oh god how I tried and I slept in t-the hall and I-" 

He shook his head, tears flowing down his face as he recalled the anguish of those days, "p-put the cameras in B-Baker...y-you are never coming h-home with me again and I c-can't st-stand the thought of...it w-was hell watching y-you leave, watching you p-pack...I...I _hate it there_ w-without you and n-now..." his face fell in pained grief and he allowed himself a moment to cry, leaned as far into John's touch as possible. "I h-have n-n-never been more t-terrified in my entire existence than wh-when I realized he had you. My h-heart nearly stopped, and wh-when I _saw you John_ oh g-god when I saw...I am s-so sorry you hurt, oh god I'm so sorry you hurt...m-my fault, all of it and-" he could not carry on as he looked back at Moran who was now openly laughing. 

John bore Sherlock's speech the same way he had bore Moriarty's torture in the beginning, before he'd started with the knives, when it had been basic rules and learning not to fight back. He regulated his breathing, forced his shoulders to be relaxed, and dug his fingernails into his palms. 

The main thing he realized was that Sherlock _seriously_ loved him. He'd always know that there was more emotional depth to Sherlock than the man let on, and he'd defended him to people such as Anderson, Donovan, or anyone else who happened to make an untrue comment. He hadn't realize just how deep still waters could run. 

"I...Jesus, you really do love me." 

John kept his hand on Sherlock's face and looked him in the eyes. "There's one thing I need to clear up. I never loathed you. I was terrified, but it's like I was trapped in my own body. My mind turned against me. His training...Moriarty was good at what he did. I still can't drink a damn cup of water."

Sherlock dragged his focus back to John with great difficulty, frightened to stop tracking the threat in the room. He stared at him, something deep that occupied a very small, tiny place next to his heart slightly relaxing. John wasn't looking at him with fear or hatred, there was no agonized betrayal. It was just...John. Just John, who was clearly incredibly stressed and quite pale, too thin and scarred to hell, but _John._

"Oh," he breathed, not in response to John's words but rather to his presence. His throat swelled up tight as warmth finally, Jesus _finally_ began to whisper back into him. For a moment, he was reminded of hope. 

He cleared his throat and nodded, closing his eyes and focusing on John's hand at his face. "I...I d-dressed like a doctor...I h-hated lying to you...but I h-had to protect you and you w-were _so scared_ I c-c-couldn't make myself le-leave you alone. I k-kept letting you loose...I h-hated seeing y-you tied down and...g-god it was...M-Moran...Moran d-did..." 

He shuddered hard as he remembered the brandy puff against his face, the indescribable pain that made him sure he was being torn in half, the twist of spikes in his tendons and the teeth-jarring scrape of blade on bone as he slowly detached his kneecap... 

"E-everything but n-none of it was w-w-worse than watching you suffering and n-not being a-a-able to c-comfort you. I...y-you were s-so...John h-he made me...he m-m-made me..." he shook his head, too afraid to confess and lose him, "You will leave me. You w-will h-h-h-hate me John I had n-no choice! I had no choice! God I am s-so sorry John I...you were s-screaming and s-s-s-o injured and I w-was watching you die in a-agony and I cc-c-couldn't _think_ and-" he was wrecked, sobbing hard as he recalled the way his gut churned with icy nausea as he pulled a blade across John's bicep. "I- I- please, I- th-th-there are s-scalpels h-h-here and you c-can...I won't scream...I'll b-be still please, Jesus _please_ f-f-forgive me I-"

John whimpered softly and focused all his mental energy on not running to the door and screaming for Greg. He kept his eyes on Sherlock's and tried -as he had many times before- to pin down just what color they were. Before, prolonged eye-contact had been sparse. Now, all shame had been stripped away. There were far worse things to fear than accidental intimacy. 

"At the time...I thought you had dressed up to come cut me. I thought you were going to hurt me. I was so convinced it was you. It's been...Jesus, it's been months. It's been months of you helping me for me to finally understand." John was ashamed at that particular point and his cheeks tinted red. 

"I'm not going to leave you and I _will not_ be getting the scalpel. If you want to die, you've got to kill me first. Greg too. You can't leave me and expect me to be alright, so get that out of your fucking head. I'm not going to kill you. It wouldn't make me _feel better_ to look at your corpse." 

John kept his hand on Sherlock's cheek and slowly leaned down. He was grateful for the minty smell under his nose, the soft cotton clothing Sherlock wore, and as terrible as it may have been, the fact that Sherlock was mostly immobile removed much of John's fear that he would come to bodily harm from the proximity. With the pain of Sherlock's injuries in mind, John slowly leaned down and curled himself up next to Sherlock in bed. 

"When I got back, I was ready to die. It was months before I even believed I was back. I thought it was another trick. Even when I wasn't panicking, I thought it was just his doctors coming to hurt me. I'm sorry it hurt you to not be able to help, but you came for me in the end." John breathed a sudden, pained sigh. "Oh, god, you came for me." The thought hadn't touched his mind. Not once had it occurred to him, though the cause of the thought's absence he knew not, why he hadn't once realized that after weeks of praying, Sherlock had finally come for him. There had been that awkward phase where he believed Sherlock was with him, torturing him, which was likely why the rescue hadn't registered. "You came for me," John spoke again. 

Sherlock went very still as John impossibly curled up around him. He deeply loathed the restraints, but he would take _anything_ from John, anything at all, and he turned his face away from the hallucination of Moran and turned as much into John as he possibly could, whimpering in relief. He was quiet for nearly ten minutes, his breath shattering in and out of his lungs as John's simple act -which carried universes of meaning- stripped away the agony and left him raw and floating, a purgatory that was fucking bliss after all this time. 

"I...I came, of course I came. I _ran_ and...I didn't...I didn't know...I'd...you were so terse with me in your -well, not _your_ \- e-emails...h-hardly responding to me and s-sending the others pages and pages, with p-pictures and...I th-thought...I tried so _h-hard_ to k-keep you, I wanted to be enough so badly I could f-feel it in my teeth...and you walked out, th-thinking I was just being...do you remember? 'Oh Sherlock it will be a single y-year, you likely won't e-even know I'm gone. Do c-cut the drama, yeah? I've a flight.'" 

Sherlock blinked the tears off his lashes at the memory. "I th-thought...you were done with me and s-s-so it would have been...I didn't want to force you to tell me that you were done. I thought it was your way of being nice. S-So I didn't press...I didn't press b-because when you left it was 'see you l-later,' and n-n-not 'goodbye' and I was too cowardly to w-watch you c-cut me out." 

He groaned and pulled at his wrist, making a pathetic sound of fear as it caught again. "I always came. When they b-banned me from hospital and wh-when...I'm sorry I w-was such a cock, John. I d-d-drove you away just as I thought...was _sure_ th-that I couldn't. I hate alone. Y-you made me see how m-m-much I ha-hate alone and n-now I've lost you." 

John couldn't breathe. Sherlock's words cut him to the bone with guilt as sharp and cruel as any knife that his body had been subjected to. "I'm sorry," he lamented and cautiously rested his head on Sherlock's shoulder. 

"I'm sorry I was so awful. I wasn't leaving to insult you, I swear! It wasn't that I was bored or angry or wanted to find a nice way to 'cut you off'. I just..." John let out a pathetic whimper and began to cry, "I just wanted to go to Africa and help people. That's it. That's all I-I w-wanted. I just...my professor in school went one year and came back with pictures and stories and I wanted to go but then there was war and-and I was injured and..." John trailed off and allowed himself to cry freely on Sherlock's shoulder for several moments before he regained composure.

 

John made a face when his own words were spat back at him completely verbatim. "I...How do you remember that? Those words? Why would you bother with something like that in your palace?" 

Sherlock had leaned as much into John as was possible when the man began to cry. He'd not intended to wound. He lay there quietly, staring at Moran across the room who was tutting and shaking his head like a disappointed parent, occasionally tugging with his good hand and despising that three of his limbs were locked up in plasters and too damaged to use. 

Then John was explaining why he left and Sherlock tried his best to stuff the words in the makeshift file he'd been trying to put together in his mind. He looked at him when John asked how he remembered, as though it were odd. Sherlock exhaled and licked his lip, his tongue smearing a thin line of blood as it traced along the split tissues. "Y-You...you r-really have n-n-no idea, do you?" He breathed in wonder, closing his eyes and effortlessly grabbing words. 

He started from the day before John left, quoting back to John every single thing he'd said while Sherlock poured over his microscope, hopping back from one week to the next, grabbing up segments John had carried on about. He recalled John's exact words on some pithy blond in the tube that had given John eyes but he didn't care for her chav boyfriend before quoting back to John the day he'd saved a baby brought to his clinic not breathing. He recalled as if rote John's recounted story of his struggles paying a taxi driver and his thoughts on the latest films he'd seen, his opinion of broccoli and several other every day, banal ramblings that John carried on with while Sherlock worked in his company. 

"I...h-how could I n-not store e-e-everything you say? You...you are the m-most important...m-m-m-most fascinating, r-rare man I've e-e-ever had the privilege to know. What d-data could trump y-yours?"

John was speechless. He'd been through schooling and knew the value of quick memorization. He knew that Sherlock could remember virtually anything he wanted, retained vast amounts of information, and in general must have stores of knowledge John could only dream of. But to think that Sherlock had turned that focus, that resolve and that interest to John was almost alarming.

"I...you remember everything. How? You don't...How am I more important than the sun? How can you not know that we don't have a king but you know my opinion on how ripe bananas should be before eaten?" He wiped tears out of his eyes and looked up to watch Sherlock's face. "I'm not rare. I'm just an army doctor who likes crap Telly and works at a clinic. I'm just a man. I'm not fascinating or particularly interesting. God, you turn down everything but the most perplexing cases, and you think _I'm_ fascinating? The most interesting part of my life before was you! You and the cases! On my own I'm just...and especially now, I'm broken and useless."

Sherlock's lips upturned in the first, faint shadow of a smile. It felt odd to make the expression after so long, and while sweating with stress and strapped down so that he'd not harm himself. It was genuine though, and a rush of purpose pushed through his veins in a way that far outstripped the relief of narcotics. 

"Y-You have n-n-never been 'just' an-anything, John," he whispered, eyes flicking up to Moran in the corner before swiftly schooling himself to keep his focus on John, even as his heart spiked and rolled over, making the monitor blip. "Y-you are...you dr-drop your cane when you believe you c-can't. You...y-you sh-shoot first when your gut says to do so. Y-Your f-family is r-rubbish and absent and you st-still love deeply. You sm-smile when you are angry and you r-render aid even to the enemy and- th-there is nothing predictable about you. You are th-this...this man who f-fills up a room d-despite your stature. St-steady and quiet when ch-chaos has gripped everyone else." He nodded, exhaling slowly as his tone dropped quiet and serious. 

"You a-are the man who still spat in M-Moriarty's f-face _m-months_ in...who s-stressed the most d-dangerous criminal mind...he- god his f-face, John. You perplexed him for s-so long. And n-now? You...d-defy. You are here, w-with m-me, and I cannot see h-how you possess the strength and y-yet you do and- J-John you are no more b-broken than the m-mountains are. There is n-nothing smooth or p-polished about a weathered cliff f-f-face, and y-yet men die t-trying to conquer it. You were u-under the whip, but M-Moriarty is naught but ash. T-Tell me h-how that m-makes you 'just John.'" 

He shivered hard and tugged again at his wrist as Moran took a menacing step forward, his heart pounding with fear even as he tried to remind himself that John was right there, that they were okay, it was safe, and he surely could not be seeing anything real. "O-On your own, you a-a-re just as remarkable. It's n-not me, John, it's you."

John sat up at the end of Sherlock's declaration, not out of fear or discomfort or wanting to draw away. He simply needed to be sure Sherlock meant his words. He stared at Sherlock with a shocked expression, wanting to believe but holding his breath instead. 

When he saw the raw honesty on Sherlock's face he had to close his eyes. John immediately sank back down and hot tears fell onto Sherlock's shoulder. 

"You...oh, god, thank you." He'd never thought such things about himself. Even before, when he had been sound physically and mentally, undamaged for the most part and only one scar, he hadn't thought such things. Now, with his worth summed up as a tool to keep Sherlock happy while waiting to die, John needed it even more. He shuddered at how good it felt to be praised so highly. John stared at his arms, at the rough and jaggedness of his skin, and decided he would be a mountain with a rocky edge, not a pile of shattered glass. 

"I did those things. I did. I'm...I'm not w-w-worthless. Not...at least not to you." John nuzzled his face down onto a small patch of uncovered skin on Sherlock's collar. "He couldn't make me hate you. He tried. He tried so hard. That's what got him. He didn't count on me not hating you. In the end, me fearing you seemed to be his plan B." 

Sherlock was doing his best to keep his focus on John, the warmth where their skin met, and oh what a feeling that was. His mind, however, was rebelling on him. Moran grinned wolfishly from the corner, speaking low and quiet as John lay against him. 

_"Perhaps I'll put the two of you in a room together, let you sort it," he mocked, sending the words of Sherlock's first hours in captivity right back against him. "Comfortable, Sherlock? Got your doctor all wrapped up around you? You've never heard him scream right there in your ear, right against your neck. It's exquisite. I think I'll have out your tongue so you cannot beg his forgiveness before I break him in half, right there where you lay. You'll be able to feel the vertebrae snap, it will be memorable I assure."_

Pain ripped across his chest under his ribs, visceral and razor sharp, even without Moran taking a single step forward.

Sherlock pinched his eyes closed and forced his focus back to John as his heart nearly beat out of his chest, kicking off a steady warning from the monitors. "I'm-m s-ss-s-o gl-" he had to stop and grab a breath through his mouth, gasping like a fish for several breaths before carrying on, twisting his wrist in the restraint, "gl-glad you d-d-d-don't h-te m-me. I c-couldn't b-b-bear it." 

Miller leaned against the door, listening beside Mycroft and Greg, his phone in his hand giving him a real-time read of Sherlock's monitors. "We may have to intervene soon, Sherlock's brushing against an abnormal rhythm. Skipping beats as it is now."

Tears flowed down John's face and he shuddered against the onslaught of information he was receiving. The idea that he had worth was shocking enough to make him cease breathing, so starved had he been for a purpose. He was able to ignore the nagging panic of Greg leaving and the sound of Sherlock's voice. He could ignore the pain it brought him to see Sherlock's cuts and remember his own. John was helping, finally, and being helped in the process. 

Relief washed over him in waves, gently thawed his limbs which felt frozen in their tense state. "H-He couldn't make me hate you. He ever made me hate you. Oh god, Sherlock, I won!" John, unaware of Sherlock's internal battle, sobbed openly onto his shoulder. "H-H-He c-couldn't make m-me hate y-you. I w-won. I-I-" John's mind seemed to let go all at once. 

"Oh, god...oh, god...it's over. It's...it's o-over. I-I w-won." 

Sherlock had wanted so terribly to arrive at this very moment with John that he grit his teeth, forcing himself to breathe deeper than his body wanted, making his best effort to slow down and settle whatever was happening. Copper slid around the back of his throat and his toes curled as the pain slicing across his chest seeped into his back, cutting a line across his shoulder blades, seizing up his diaphragm. He nodded against John as Moran started tapping the wrench along the side of the wall. 

_"Remember what it felt like, after I dug that bullet out and then drove the needle into the hole? God how you screamed, that's when I knew. I just knew right then with you singing for me that I was going to make you a whore, Sherlock. I've not heard you for weeks. Do you think he'd like to watch?"_

Sherlock whimpered and tried to speak, "Y-You w-w-n, y-o," his voice wavered in sharp fear, mouth flooding with blood as he ground down on the stitches along his cheeks to keep from screaming. Moran was far from the shadowy presence of earlier, now nearly as solid as John, stinking the room up with brandy and stale tobacco. His muscles slowly began to lock up tight as he hardly dared move his ribs, sure he could feel the warning heat of the clamps. But John was laying against him, weeping in relief, finally _finally_ understanding that he'd won and there _couldn't_ be clamps but he could _feel_ them. 

Miller shook his head, "Yeah, I'm not going in first, but he's having some sort of medical event and I don't like it." Greg looked to Mycroft in question. "No one's screamed, and John would have been belting his lungs out for me if he was scared. Maybe you should go in first, I'll follow?"

John was rolling in his own relief. The absence of pain had never struck John as a gift before. He had never woken up in the morning and been utterly thrilled that he wasn't in pain. It was just part of life after Sherlock helped him get rid of his limp. With the weight that had been crushing his mind lifted, John was left in an almost euphoric state of lessened pain. 

John felt Sherlock tense and scanned the room. If there was a threat to his Sherlock, John planned on destroying it. "What's wrong?" He asked once he had recovered his hitching breath long enough to speak. The tears had dampened his cheeks and John sniffed and wiped them away. 

"What's wrong? Can I help? Sherlock?" The euphoria of lessened pain was gone now and had been replaced with the same gnawing fear. They were alone. Greg wasn't there. Anyone could come in. John chastised himself. Greg would surely be just outside the door. 

What if he wasn't?

What if Greg had left forever?

Mycroft agreed with the other men and slowly opened the door. He was greatly relieved to see John lying with Sherlock in bed, head perked up like a prairie dog in anticipation of danger. He motioned for Greg to come in, but wanted John safely away before Miller -Sherlock's fabricated Moran- came in as well. "How are you two doing?"

Greg was right at Mycroft's back, sliding in just behind Mycroft as he started to speak. John was _in the bed_ with Sherlock and it shocked him so hard that Greg paused for a moment, his heart twisting in relief. He'd not imagined that leaving Sherlock and John alone would come to such a breakthrough. John had the rising look of fear, but there was something foundationally shifted about him. Greg gave him a wide, honest smile, walking to his side swiftly and reaching down, sliding his hand along John's shoulders and pressing a kiss to his temple, Sherlock temporarily forgotten. "Hey," he said warmly, so damn happy he was near bursting.

Stars cracked along the edges of Sherlock's vision as his ears began to ring, the monitor ever chiming its warning. He was in brilliant agony, Moran's laughter drowning out the sound of all the other men. 

_"Are you going to die now, Sherlock? Right when you've started thinking about living? Oh god please do, how hilarious! I've not even touched you, is your heart quitting?"_

Heavy tears began to track down his face, following a now well-worn path, and he'd all but stopped breathing, the pain of expanding his lungs shredding terror across his mind. He did not at all react to Mycroft. 

Though John was still worried about Sherlock, he was thrilled to see Greg. "You didn't leave," he spoke in a rush and let go of Sherlock with one arm to grab hold of Greg. "I've won, Greg. Not the whole thing, but I won a small thing. I still won. I don't hate Sherlock. See, Moriarty wanted me to hate him but I wouldn't so he settled with fear. I've won! I don't hate him! I made it through!" He looked down to Sherlock and his expression grew more somber. "Sherlock? Hey, it's alright. It's okay. What's wrong?" 

Mycroft went to Sherlock's other side and gently touched his face. "Sherlock, can you hear me? Is everything alright?" He cast a glance towards the door and debated calling for Miller. "Can you tell me what happened?"

Greg turned his attention to Sherlock as he held on to John. The man looked positively gray. The monitor beeped in time with his heart, tripping over its own rhythm and skipping beats. "John," he said gently, "let's step out? Give them some room to help him?"

Sherlock stared, wide-eyed and panicked as Moran slowly advanced, spinning the wrench gleefully in his hand and whistling happily. Sherlock did not allow himself to breathe as his lungs seized up and froze, icy panic dripping down his spine. His chest was in brilliant agony, as though it had been cracked open and the beating heart exposed for Moran's entertainment. He could not move through the terror of it, completely unable to turn his focus away from the massive sniper, too frightened to make a sound. 

"No." John kept his arm around Greg but refused his kindly worded suggestion. "I told him I'd keep him safe. I said I would make sure the doctors weren't hurting him." John rubbed his hand on Greg's shoulder to remind himself that his protection had returned and would keep him safe. 

"Sherlock," John called loudly and put his hand on Sherlock's face. "Sherlock, I'm going to keep you safe, yeah? I'm going to keep you safe. Could you look at me?"

Mycroft had seen enough to realize that it was time to call Miller, and did so as quietly as he could. 

John's voice, strong and steady in contrast to the screaming with which Sherlock had become accustomed, was enough to grab his attention long enough for him to tear his eyes away from Moran, who was now within arm's reach. He looked up at him, soaked in sheer terror, suddenly trying to drag in a sharp breath. The air wheezed loudly in his chest, hardly doing anything to relieve the sensation of suffocation, and panic tore across his mind. He tried to reach for John, his wrist yet again caught, too weak now to struggle. 

Miller was in the moment Mycroft called, pressing the buds of his stethoscope into his ears as he approached Sherlock. He pressed the bell to Sherlock's chest, closing his eyes and frowning as he listened, moving his hand from time to time, careful never to touch John even as he swiftly assessed Sherlock. He stepped back not ten seconds later, "I think that lung is collapsing on us again, we may need to just get him in theater now."

He spoke as he began drawing up medications to help Sherlock's cardiac overload, leaning over and muting the damned thing to try and bring the tension down. He grabbed the mask off the wall and handed it to John, "Help him for me? Let me get this drawn up, he's working a tensionpneumo," he said automatically, treating John as he would any other doctor, without giving him anything particularly critical to do. 

John took the mask and slowly put it over Sherlock's nose and mouth. "It's okay, Sherlock!" He called loudly and tried to bring his panicked heart rate down. "Breathe slowly. I'm here. I'll protect you." He slipped the elastic strap behind Sherlock's curls, which were damp with sweat and growing a bit matted at the back. 

It was taking everything in his power not to panic and turn away. "Greg," he whispered, mostly to himself. He'd let go to put the mask on Sherlock but quickly returned one hand to Greg's shoulder. "This is...." _Don't say hurting. It isn't hurting._ "...stressful." 

Greg nodded as he kept a hand on John, trying his best to stay as close and supportive as possible. He dropped his eyes to Sherlock, observing him while Sherlock kept his wide, glassy eyes on John. That lasted all of a minute before Sherlock's eyes rolled up into the back of his head and he went completely limp, his breathing shallow and rattling in his chest. 

"Shit," Greg breathed as he tried to gather John up, "we have to let Miller help him, you don't have to leave but you've got to move." 

Miller spun back around, his focus divided between Sherlock and the monitor. He reached out and punched the code button affixed to the monitor to summon help, dropping the head of Sherlock's bed and tossing the pillow to the floor. 

"This involves a sizable needle," he warned, grabbing sheers and starting to cut a line down the center of Sherlock's chest, exposing his battered torso. "Mycroft the lung collapsed, he needs to be operated on tonight, can't wait. Greg, seriously take John out of here."

The combination of the mention of a needle, the sheers, and Sherlock's clothes being cut open was enough to almost set John off. He didn't move from Sherlock's side and eyed Miller carefully, in the same manner he had eyed the other doctors when protecting Greg. The sight of the sheers, after a few moments, began to wear at his defenses and his grip on Greg became white knuckled. "Greg," he called in warning and the metal looked more threatening by the minute. 

Worry for Sherlock and fear of the sheers quickly swept away John's defenses and left him clinging to Greg. "D-don't let them h-h-hurt Sh-Sherlock!! Don't t-take his cloths off! I'll ke-ep him s-s-safe. D-d-don't!!"

Mycroft locked eyes with Greg for a moment. "Get him out."


	6. Pins and Needles

In response to both the blaring monitors and Mycroft’s stern order, Greg wrapped one arm around John’s back and the other under his knees, lifting him with little difficulty. Despite John’s protest, he set him in his wheelchair, keeping one hand slung across John’s chest like a seatbelt as he pushed them out of the makeshift hospital room. Immediately out of the door, Greg turned the chair hard right so that they were close, but out of the way on the opposite side of the wall, watching from the corner of his eye as staff began to flood in. 

He crouched in front of John, taking John’s pale face in his hands. 

"Look at me," he instructed firmly, leaning in close, "John. That is Sherlock's big brother in there. I swear no one is going to hurt him. Sherlock is having a medical emergency. John. He is safe. Tell me Sherlock is safe, tell me you understand."

John had mentally slipped, losing hold of his reality and was spiraling into panic. "No, Greg, STOP IT! They cut his clothes off! He said there would be a needle! God, the sheers...I hate the sheers. Let me in! Let go!" 

John struggled against Greg as his own heart rate had soared and he was gasping for air in his panic. "Greg, PLEASE! I told him I would protect him! They-" John's stomach rolled and he gagged hard. In his confused mind he thought he knew exactly what was going on in that room, and it made him sick with panic. 

"They're HURTING HIM," John cried and tried to push Greg out of the way. He'd tried to keep his mind in control. Truly he had. But the removal of clothing with sheers, the talk of a needle and the presence of doctors had clouded his mind. "I said I would protect him!"

\---

Sherlock was decidedly _not_ safe. The flooding overhead lights clicked on, harshly illuminating Sherlock’s broken body, his shirt cut open with the white material hanging over the edges of the bed, framing Sherlock’s bandaged chest. He was visibly struggling to breathe, the spaces between his ribs dipping in on each desperate inhalation, the skin at his collarbones sucking down, carotids standing out starkly as he fought and wheezed as though attempting to breathe through cellophane. 

"Mycroft you may want to step out," Miller warned as he cut away the bandaging over Sherlock’s chest. Not seconds after advising the elder brother to leave, Sherlock’s muscles began to lock up on their own, holding him stiff for several moments before electrical activity exploded in his brain, sending him into a violent seizure. 

Miller swiftly dragged a sponge of rust-brown betadine over Sherlock’s side, focused only on his patient, unaware if Mycroft had left or not. In the next second he drove a large bore syringe through the gap of Sherlock’s ribs, holding it tightly in place as Sherlock’s body thrashed on the bed. Another member of the staff began pushing drugs to slow the seizure as the needle in Sherlock’s chest hissed loudly, allowing the air trapped outside of his lung to escape. 

When the dust began to settle, Sherlock lay still and quiet, the constant _whoosh...whoosh_ of the blue bag Miller was using to breathe for Sherlock the only sound in the room. 

\---

Greg wrapped his arms tight around John, remembering his promise never to hold him down again. "JOHN!" He shouted as he stood up with them, John in a bear hug though free to move his arms, "John we are going to go look, so you can see they are medically helping him, but if you are disruptive I have to take you back out. Don't fight me, John, I don't want to pin you down okay? Please!" 

He began to move them to the door, keeping an iron grip on John. 

Sherlock was in full arrest, no longer breathing, Miller working his chest as they calmly gave him drugs to aid his quivering heart. Sherlock was fully exposed at this point while they prepped him to move to surgery. Greg held tight to John, looking over at Mycroft. 

"Mycroft," he called out, shaking his head. Sherlock’s brother did not need to watch this. They were tipping Sherlock's head back as Miller charged paddles, another physician sliding a tube into Sherlock's trachea to breathe for him. 

"Mycroft come outside," Greg tried, deeply worried for the elder brother. 

Mycroft refused to move, rooted firmly in place. He was standing a few feet away, hands hanging useless by his sides and lips pressed into a thin line. If Sherlock was going to die, Mycroft would be there with him when it happened. 

"I am fine where I am, thank you." His voice was tight, forced and strained. "I am quite alright. Don't focus on me."

John let out a small cry of shock and fear when he saw Sherlock exposed and lying still. A small part of his mind told him that this was helping him, that this was what needed to be done. His logic, however, was drowned out like a whisper in a hurricane. 

"Let go!" He shouted at Greg and tried his very best to struggle free. "Oh, god...oh, god... Please, PLEASE!" He seemed to spot Mycroft then and horror and disgust clouded his expression. 

"Do something! You're his brother! Do something!" Were he more lucid, he’d have sworn he caught Mycroft flinch in response. 

Greg swore and dragged John back out, glancing apologetically to Mycroft who _decidedly_ did not need to endure accusations from John, leaving the wheelchair behind and just carrying the struggling man back through security, speaking to him in a strained, tightly controlled voice. "John. Stop it. Right now. He is being helped, no one is hurting him. Stop." 

Paul blew past them on their way and Greg just nodded, his throat tight as he wrestled with John until they made it to John's room. 

John was panicking. He fought with Greg the entire way down the hall and didn't stop once they got in the room. "They are going to HURT him!" John insisted. "I-I s-saw the sheers and he was -oh, god- I said he c-could keep them on and now-" John, unable to see reason in this state, felt his stomach churn. "I said I w-would protect h-him!"

Greg sat John down in his chair and crouched in front of him, his hands over the backs of John's forearms, head hanging as he caught his breath. It had been extremely taxing to wrestle with him without hurting the man. He deeply regretted taking John back into the room, that barb he'd thrown at Mycroft had been vicious in that moment, when the elder Holmes' defenses were shredded as he watched Sherlock dying. "John, his heart stopped. Repeat that back to me. Sherlock's heart stopped." 

John's chest heaved and he tried to understand why Greg was keeping him from Sherlock. The statement buried itself into John's chest like a barb and twisted. 

"His heart? I...I told him I was going to keep him safe. They took....god, I told him he could keep them, I-" John exhaled very forcefully and tried to struggle past Greg once more. "Please," he said with a high note if desperation, "let me go to him."

Greg did not restrain John, but he kept him from rising up with shifting pressure backwards each time he tried to stand. "No," he said gently, his eyes burning as his throat swelled. 

"No, John, not until you tell me what happened. You can't keep him safe from this, he has to be with the medical team right now. None of us can help him." 

John growled in frustration when he couldn't stand. Before, he had always been confident in his ability to at least hold his own in a fight. Now it hardly took anything to subdue him.

"He...he said he was sorry and I forgave him and he explained and -God- he remembers everything I've ever said. I promised I would keep him safe and now he's HURTING. LET. ME. GO!" 

"JOHN!" Greg snapped back, dragging a hand across his eyes, clearing away the brimming tears, "John," he repeated, calmer. "Please, _please_ focus for me. Stay with me and focus, please. We are _all_ scared right now. Sherlock's heart stopped, John, they are trying to save him from dying, okay? Please stay with me, focus. I know you're tired. Please focus. I'd never let them hurt Sherlock, neither would Paul or Mycroft. Please, John." 

John squeezed his eyes shut. "I-I heard y-you say you l-lo-ove him," he claimed in an effort to calm himself. "You w-wouldn't...wouldn't let him b-be...be..." John covered his face with his hands and doubled over in the chair. "W-why c-c-ca-an't I-I see h-him?"

Greg eased up higher and wrapped his arms around John, hugging him tight, grazing his fingers through John's hair. "He's having surgery, they are trying to save him. I promise I'll take you back to him as soon as we can see him. They are not hurting him, John, they are trying to save him. No one is going to...to touch him like that, John. The shears were for his cloths, so that they could help him. He was in arrest, he needed his shirt off. I swear they are helping. I love you, I'm so proud of you, I'm so sorry this happened." 

\---

Miller discharged a shock to Sherlock's chest for the second time, watching the monitor as Sherlock's body jerked under the current. "V-Fib," he said calmly, putting the paddles down and looking up as both Paul and the cardiac surgeon who'd been paged arrived. The team was ready to push Sherlock out into the hall, headed for the makeshift OR that had been created there just for the younger Holmes. Miller looked up to Mycroft as the steady, even rhythm blipped audibly around them. 

"This is a good rhythm, Mycroft, he's not breathing but that's not surprising. We can take him now, you've a moment to talk to him if you'd like, but we need to move." 

Mycroft shook his head at the offer to speak with his brother, even though it might be the last time he got such a chance. "Don't waste time. Go." He watched with as calm of an expression as he could manage, but even with his degree of control he appeared to be in great distress.

Paul moved to Mycroft's side as they wheeled Sherlock out, crunching on discarded wrappers and medical detritus. He pointed to a chair beside Mycroft. 

"Sit down, you are going to black out," he warned, watching all the color drain from the man. "Sit down. Take a moment." 

Mycroft was dizzy. He focused on the ground below him and sat down slowly. Too slowly. Everything seemed to be moving far too slowly, like they were suspended in something thicker than air and had to struggle through it. Mycroft stared at the door they had rushed Sherlock out of and blinked slowly. 

"His heart stopped. Technically, he died. That's what he wanted, wasn't it?"

Paul sat down next to Mycroft, keeping a sharp eye on him in case he did end up blacking out. It wouldn't surprise him. The man had pushed himself terribly. "Was John in here with him? I passed he and Greg, John was in hysterics but it sounded like he wanted to get _to_ Sherlock and not away from him."

Mycroft recapped the events to Paul, ending with; "They were in bed together when we came in to assess Sherlock's vitals. John was alright at first, but the sheers, removal of clothing and presence of doctors seemed to push him over." He raised a shaking hand to his hair and exhaled slowly. 

"I need to lie down."

Paul stood up and offered a hand to Mycroft. "He has the very best working on him. I know you hired them, so you already know that, but sometimes it helps to hear. Will you please allow me to give you something for nerves? It's likely to be hours before he's out of theater." 

Mycroft nodded and checked his phone. "I need to eat...and sleep. I'll take something for anxiety and try to get some rest. Text me updates if you get them, and notify me when he gets out or....if he doesn't make it."

Paul walked with Mycroft the short distance to the room he'd been sleeping in. He handed him a hefty dose of Xanex and texted for a light meal and a high calorie meal replacement drink to be sent along. 

"Food that is coming will be easy on your stomach. If nausea becomes a problem, take one of these." He set down a thin vial of small, liquid filled capsules. Mycroft likely wanted to be on his own for now. "I will text you major updates. Perhaps your men will be able to get that room more comfortable for him when he's out of surgery. I will see to that as best I can." 

Mycroft took the Xanex and slipped into his room. From just inside the door, he turned and addressed Paul. 

"Thank you. You have been invaluable. If you need anything, do not hesitate to ask. Most of the staff, with the exception of security, will listen to you and provide whatever you need." He left then and sank down on the edge of his bed. His list was growing larger. 

_Guilt_  
-Inability to protect from pain  
-Indecisiveness on capturing Moran  
Fear  
-Will not survive - most immediate -  
-Will not recover   
-Loss of the closest thing to intellectual equal  
-Loss of family  
-Will never function 

\---

John was greatly distressed, and while he could tell that Greg was trying to help, it was only acting as a bellow to his fire. "I d-don't want them t-to t-take his c-clothes of!" He cried and dug his fingers into his hair. It was bad enough that Moran hadn't been restrained, but allow the doctors as well? John's perception of reality was slowly slipping further from the truth and he letout a startled gasp. If the doctors could hurt Sherlock, if they could take off his clothes, what would keep them from doing the same with him? "I don't w-want to be here," John whispered gravely and held on to Greg. "I-I can't...I can't d-defend m-myself. I n-need to be safe." He had begun to shake once more and curled in on himself like a very small, very frightened child. 

Greg drew John into his arms and in a deft move, picked him up and swiveled, swapping their positions. He cradled John to his chest, letting John keep his knees drawn up tight, wrapping the blanket around them and holding him close. 

"You are safe. I will protect you. No one will hurt you, John. Can you take a few deep breaths for me. Come back, John, stay with me. Stay right up here with me." 

An attempt to speak yielded only a strangled sob and John shut his eyes. _I'm not safe here. Sherlock isn't safe. They took Sherlock's clothes off._ John whimpered and buried his face in Greg's shoulder. "H-He-e-el-lp," he managed through his hitching breath and heaving chest. "I-I-I-m-m s-sca-ared I-I-" 

John was breaking his heart. Greg wrapped him up tighter and began to rock them both. "John, I have you. You're okay, love, you're okay. No one has hurt you, no one is going to hurt you. Want to sleep? I can give you something and you can sleep, I'll stay right here with you. I know you are scared. I’m protecting you. I've got you, John." 

He cradled the back of John's head to his shoulder and lightly ran gentle circles at the back of John's head. "You are safe. I swear you are safe." 

John didn't feel safe. He didn't feel in control or content or warm. His nerves were on fire as if he had been suddenly woken from a deep sleep and tossed into a pool of ice water and he began to hear as if in a tunnel. Greg's voice sounded strange, too distant, and his heart hammered away in his ears. John looked around wildly before returning back to Greg a bit. He nuzzled down onto his shoulder, seeking comfort, but his trembling only increased. "H-H-He-el-" John tried to articulate, to say he needed help, but it was getting him nowhere. 

"Okay, love," Greg responded gently, carefully lifting John in his arms and walking over to the bed. He settled John down and wrapped him up in the blankets, even leaving his shoes on, not wanting John to suspect for a moment that he was in danger of being assaulted. 

"I'm going to give you something in your line here, John. Just to help you calm down, I'm going to help you. Breathe for me," he carried on quietly, picking up one of the pre-drawn syringes Paul had provided and quickly slipping it into John's port. He pushed it slowly, speaking softly to him. 

"I love you. You are safe. It will be better when you wake up. I love you." 

John shook his head and stared at Greg with wide eyes. Was it Greg? John's eyes wouldn't stay still to let him be sure. They darted around frantically even once he was in bed. He sat up with his legs together and bent under him, on his knees but doubled over. That would keep him safe. John held his knees to his chest and looked up to survey the room. Someone was there, but he couldn't tell who. Things were becoming blurred, reality fading away under the heavy pressure of nightmares and memories burned in his mind. 

The pull of medication severely alarmed him and he grabbed the waist of his trousers. "NO!" He shouted and fought to keep himself alert. "NO! NO! PLEASE!"

Greg did not approach him. He just sat on the edge of the bed and watched John with his heart twisting in on itself in sympathy. Christ what these men had endured. He bit his lip and waited for the medication to drag John into unconsciousness, not daring to speak, recognizing that John did not know where he was. 

John had dissolved into screaming, thrashing chaos before the medication finally forced his limbs to slow. He begged Moriarty for mercy, heard the soft voice lulling about in his mind, and could see the man's sickeningly pleasant smile hovering around him. He cried out in desperation, for Greg, for Sherlock, for Mycroft and even for his _mother_. 

Despite his valiant attempts to fight it off, John succumbed to the rushing darkness and stilled. 

Greg slid a trembling hand over his eyes when John finally stilled, leaning forward and letting himself fall apart. That had been...he'd never get the sound of John screaming for his mother out of his head ever again. He ended up asleep at the foot of the bed after arranging John into something close to comfortable in his position, attaching the feeding tube and the saline to keep him fed and hydrated. Greg gave John his morphine and then allowed himself to rest. 

 

\---

The hours slid by with Sherlock in surgery and Paul took to the effort of making his room more hospitable. There was a snag with obtaining Mycroft's list, and Sherlock was wheeled back far before they'd anticipated. 

Paul observed quietly as Miller and the surgeons set Sherlock up in the incomplete room, partially decorated but still quite institutional looking. He let his gaze fall to Sherlock's leg and arm with clinical interest. The leg was surrounded with halo casing, screws drilled down into the bone and suspending the limb in the center, keeping it still so that the fine repairs of his kneecap could set properly. The large swath of skin that had been peeled away was finally replaced with a proper mesh graft, glistening under the protective plastic. His shattered arm was the same, the elbow and forearm secured with protruding pins. It looked...painful. At least the swelling had gone down. 

Sherlock was intubated, a machine once again breathing for him. Miller gave Paul the report, "He stopped twice more on the table, it was getting to be too much. Never got to his hands, but the major repairs are done. Cleaned up the internal repairs and put the chest tube back in, not sure why that lung collapsed. Should get Mycroft, we are waking Sherlock up as soon as we can, need to ensure he's neurologically sound and it would likely be less traumatic if his brother was giving him instructions rather than me." 

Paul moved swiftly to Mycroft's room, having refrained from texting, and knocked on the door. 

Mycroft had not slept. He had stayed completely still, hardly breathing, staring ahead and running through his logical processes once more. He'd found several flaws within his own phaneron. He was more hopeless, more willing to accept defeat, and more desperate for a solution. All of these things he set up careful guards around and forced his mind to comply with the idea that he might not be seeing completely clearly. 

God, that had been awful. He had seen death before, but never this messy, pained, and close to his heart. He assumed that the lack of news was a sign that Sherlock hadn't died permanently, but still his heart clenched when he heard the knock. 

"Come in," he responded instantly and got to his feet. 

Paul pushed the door open and spoke without hesitation, his voice low and gentle, calm in his delivery. "Sherlock is out of surgery, stable, and in his room." He gave Mycroft a minute to collect himself, moving back into the hallway and speaking calmly through the open door.

"Dr. Miller needs to run a series of neurological checks due to complications during operation, and figures it would be less frightening if the instructions came from you. I was not expecting Sherlock out so soon, unfortunately he became too unstable to endure all of the necessary repairs." 

Mycroft sank back down into his bed and covered his face with his hands. Generally, such displays of weakness would not be tolerable. But he couldn't have any illusions in this operation. He needed to be completely and brutally honest with himself about his mental state. 

"This is distressing. I will go to him now. I sincerely hope there will be no neurological complications. He's endured enough. And his mind..." Mycroft shook his head. "I'll go now."

Paul followed Mycroft in, gently touching a hand to his shoulder just before they made it to Sherlock's room. He was sure the man would not welcome physical support, but he looked as though he needed it. 

Sherlock was breathing on his own again, the tube out of his throat, though still flat on his back. Miller looked up at Mycroft and nodded. "He's numb from navel down, and I've done my best to block his arm so that he cannot feel it. The halos look bad, but they will heal him with the fastest efficiency. I need to see if he's neurologically sound, he arrested twice more in theater. When you are ready, we will wake him. I thought your face would be the most soothing for him." 

"John's face would be the most comforting," Mycroft muttered but took his place by Sherlock's side. Sherlock looked terrible, and Mycroft was reminded that even during his days as a drug addict the dark circles under his eyes had never been so puffy, and his cheeks had never been so hollow. It was painful to look at, but Mycroft was grateful to see the rise and fall of his chest. 

"Yes, let's wake him up. What would you like me to do?"

Miller nodded as he loaded the syringe, watching Sherlock's breath fog up the mask. "I need to see if he can speak. If he can do that, he's going to need to blink a few times, smile, and follow basic tracking. Your finger will do fine. I'll try not to draw attention to myself, but I'll need a good look at his eyes. Start with speech. 

The effect of the injection was nearly instant, as Sherlock pulled in a ragged, deep breath, the better arm pulling up to his chest without hesitation, clearly trying to defend himself. It took another minute before he was making small, sharp sounds of pained distress, a tear tracking down the side of his face as he shifted to protect himself. 

Mycroft nodded to Miller and waited for Sherlock to wake. As soon as he stirred, Mycroft was speaking softly. "Hey, 'Lock. It's My. Are you alright? I'm right here. How are you feeling?" He crawled up beside him on the bed and gently put an arm around him. 

"Could you tell me where you are?"

Sherlock's eyes shot open and he clenched his teeth as a body moved up beside his, heavy and warm, the rough scratch of material against his sensitized skin. He tensed violently, gasping in fear before he focused on the man.

" _My_ ," he managed in desperate relief, pulling his better hand from his chest and grabbing at Mycroft with it. He clutched tight and began to babble in a chaotic mix of several languages, never English. 

"Moran i-is here and he...I h-had this d-dream...he didn't want thirteen, only eight...only eight...he took my knee cap for thirteen. I never listen. John curled up next to me. Normally he sends _them_ but this time...it was a g-good dream wh-why did you...my arm h-hur-" his jumbled words cut off as he tried to pedal his feet, suddenly going still before panic roared up and dragged him down. 

"My! D-did he take my legs? Oh g-god my legs I- no, no no, pl-please no My I n-need my legs! I should have shut up! I should have shut up why didn't I s-s-stop?! I- My help me, _help me_ , god I hope you're really here. Please brother I w-want to go home!" 

Mycroft kissed Sherlock's forehead and held his hands. "Yes, it's Mycroft. But don't worry, please, don't worry. Moran is gone. I am keeping you safe. John came to see you, and he was in bed with you. That was real. He was real. The reason why you can't feel your legs is because they've been numbed. Medicine. We didn't want you to be in pain, and it will keep your kneecap from hurting. You don't want to have pain, right? Your legs don't hurt, but they are still there. They will work again, better than before." 

Sherlock nearly screamed as his brother suggested hurting him. _You don't want to have pain, right?_ He let go of him, grabbing his own chest and shying back,eyes slammed shut. "Not real, it's not real. Not Mycrof-ft, n-not...n-n-not real, trick. F-focus...focus...Sh-sherlock f-f-f-focus," he rattled in the same chaotic mix, never once touching English. 

Miller frowned and stepped forward, wanting to watch Sherlock's face, gauging for damage to his brain in the even lines of his grimace. 

Sherlock's heart was racing, nearly making him sick. His nose was bleeding yet again, so easily set off since Moran smashed it with a metal rod. It wasn't broken any longer, but it needed repairs.

"John?" he shouted then, the sound of his own loud voice startling him and he tried to shield himself, bumping the halo over his arm. He looked down at himself, seeing the pins in his body as he choked on fear. 

"No," he breathed, starting to cry like a child, "please no, no no, no please," panic twisting over him. His heart stuttered in its rhythm, tripping the monitors again. 

"No, no, Sherlock, I am real!" Mycroft held his little 'Lock close to his chest and whispered quietly to him, changing languages every other word, then after two, then three, five, eight, thirteen... 

"It's alright, Sherlock. Please listen to me. Please. I am here for you. It's the real My. I came for you. I am here to help you. If you could look at me for a moment, I can tell you about where John is and how he is doing."

Sherlock whimpered against Mycroft's chest. "P-please no m-more s-s-s-spikes, nno more pins, I can't do it a-anymore, My. T-take them out, I'll...I'll s-say...please...I can't take this anymore, I can't t-take...I h-had John b-b-back I can't...I can't please just let me die. I can't t-take it My, please take them out!"

Mycroft wanted to take the pins out himself, so much so had his baby brother's plea struck his heart. "The pins are helping you," he whispered, continuing on with his mathematical language skips. "They are helping you heal. Please, don't be upset. I am keeping you safe."

Sherlock sobbed against his brother, shaking and deeply frightened. "I th-thought...I thought I w-w-was safe with you. Why...wh-y are you letting him at me? I'm s-s-sorry whatever I d-d-did I'm ss-s-sorry please, g-god please I am s-so tired." 

Mycroft felt the accusations like lashes from a cat-o-nine tails and dropped his head down. "I've not let anyone at you. Not ever. Nobody has had you since I rescued you."

Sherlock reached back for his brother, touching Mycroft's face with trembling fingers. "My chest hurts...it's h-hard to breathe," he managed as he cried. "I'm....I can't take...no more, My...please."

"You are healing. It is going to hurt. But it won't hurt for long. Don't worry. You are going to start feeling better soon." Mycroft held Sherlock's hand to his face and smiled down at him. "You'll get better."

Sherlock lay next to his brother, shaking as he cried, struggling to keep himself from screaming as he heard the other men shift in the room. "Ch-chest...chest hurts, My...it h-hurts. Did he..." Sherlock gasped for breath as he ached, he felt as though Moran had rained blows down on him mercilessly. He tried to lean more into Mycroft, shouting with pain as he tugged at his arm in the halo, the sensation nearly identical to the feeling of the earlier spikes

Mycroft gently pushed Sherlock into a position where the halo brace wouldn't be tugged on. "Sherlock, stay still. Please, stay still. You'll only make things worse by struggling. I haven't let anyone hurt you. You've been in surgery." 

Sherlock filled his lungs and screamed for a clipped moment. "S-S-Stop _t-talking like him_ ," he sobbed, both wanting to pull away and wanting to move forward into the protection his brother surely offered. His heart slammed against his ribs, making the pain across his chest worse. 

Paul was once again reminded how crucial the tapes were, watching as Miller took his notes. 

Mycroft added the need to learn how Moran spoke onto his priority list. "Okay, 'Lock. I'll speak like myself. If there are any overlaps in my manner of speech and his, you must forgive me. If you would calm down, you would be in much less pain. Do try and be still. Nobody here will hurt you."

Sherlock went still at his brother's request, closing his eyes and nodding. "Surgery....that's...I don't f-feel well...My...I..." He dropped down into sad tears, trying to catch his breath, "I'm scared."

"I know you're scared," Mycroft soothed and kissed his head again. It was the same few phrases over and overcome light touched, and kind gestures. Mycroft was determined to wear away Sherlock's fear. 

"Do you remember that John came to see you? That he curled up with you?"

"Y-yes," he sobbed, pulling at Mycroft, "I r-ruined....r-ruined...he wasn't afraid and...and I...I...m-made him leave again! I...I miss...miss J-John.

Mycroft nodded and held Sherlock's head to his chest. "I know. I know. You didn't make him leave. He just needed to go rest for a while, and you had to have surgery."

Sherlock nodded, keeping himself as still as possible. "J-John was talking to me...t-talking to me while...Moran w-was in the corner with the..." _wrench? Clamps? Pliers? Drill?_ He couldn't recall the weapon. 

"He was laughing...a-and John was...wh-which was I hallucinating? John was happy? But he w-was with _me_...My ch-chest hurts...f-feel like I've been trampled...M-Moran can't be here you...you'd..." He hitched a sob, grimacing as he moved his chest. "Please h-help...it's all....wrong."

"Sherlock, it is imperative that you listen to and trust me. You are in a maximum security facility that I operate. Nobody gets in or out unless I say so. Moran is not here. You hallucinated him. John, however, is here and very safe. He came to visit you and lay down next to you in bed. That was real. He left because you needed to go into surgery and he is distressed easily. He left with Greg and is safe." Mycroft spoke clearly and with great conviction. 

Sherlock silently mouthed the words _John is safe_ as he closed his eyes and nodded. "I...I'm v-very tired. Breathing h-hurts," he whispered, still yet to touch English. He sagged down into the bed, moving his hand from Mycroft's face down to his sleeve. 

Miller came forward and changed out Sherlock's mask deftly, giving him one with a bit of albuterol to aid his lungs. The tube in the side Sherlock's chest was likely causing his perceived difficulty breathing. "He's probably mistaking the feeling of the chest tube for difficulty breathing," Miller explained softly, just having watched Sherlock struggle with the act. 

Sherlock kept hold of Mycroft. "I...d-don't let m-me die 'til I f-fix it. I h-have to fix it. He was happy and th-then he...don't l-let me die, My, I...ha-have to fix him." He was hardly audible as the words faded down and away, nearly drifting back to sleep. 

While saddened by Sherlock's grief, Mycroft was still relieved to hear that he wanted to live. "Sherlock, everything these men-" and here again, he avoided saying 'doctors', "-have done was to help you and keep you alive and in as little pain as possible. John is safe, and will come visit you again as soon as you are both feeling well. You were in surgery, and now he is likely asleep. Trust me, brother, you'll be feeling better soon."

Sherlock dropped down hard and abrupt, his face to the hollow of Mycroft's shoulder, heart rate dropping. After a few minutes of peace, Miller whispered to Mycroft. "No sign of neurological damage, so long as the languages resolve. Even the most healthy patients come out of surgery confused. Not surprising. Everything we've seen is encouraging." 

Paul kept his eye on Mycroft, ready to slip him more medication for anxiety. "We can push a second bed up and let you sleep properly right here. Should I get the staff on that?"

Mycroft closed his eyes and rested against Sherlock until he was spoken to, at which point he responded without moving or opening his eyes. 

"Yes, a bed would be lovely. And I am sure the languages will resolve themselves. For now, I can speak with him. If you need to know what he said, if he touches a language you aren't familiar with, let me know. It was mostly just the same. He needs John more than I imagined."

For the next thirty minutes Miller sat with Sherlock as Mycroft was settled, taking strict vitals and physically checking him. He finally felt as though Sherlock could be monitored remotely, though he'd remain close. 

"Chest tube can come out in two days if there are no issues. The halos will require adjusting for the next three to four weeks, I'd speak with Paul about your strategy for that. I'll be directly outside if you need anything." 

Sherlock lay there without moving, his fingers still tangled in Mycroft's shirt, holding on like a sleeping child. 

When they were alone, Paul spoke softly. "Mycroft, we talked about your minimums. You must sleep. Do you want something to help you do that?"

Mycroft held Sherlock like he was his child and savored the brief tranquility. "I will take something for anxiety, but not for sleep. I'd like not to be groggy if he wakes suddenly in a fit. He always seems to be the worst after his dreams." 

Paul nodded and handed over a tablet for anxiety. "Hopefully he'll just rest for a few hours. I'll leave the both of you on your own. We will need to talk about his care, namely the screws. Going to be a challenge, but we will address that later."

Sherlock shifted, leaning as close to his brother as he could, even in his sleep. When Mycroft moved at all, Sherlock muttered in distress, tightening his grip before losing the strength to hold on.   
Paul nodded in Sherlock's direction. 

"You comfort him. I know he continues to experience panic, but your presence soothes him. He's lucky to have you."

Mycroft soothed Sherlock quietly each time he fretted in his sleep. 

"I only wish I had the same calming effect that John does. We could use someone unabused who has that effect on him. I am glad he is comforted by my presence, though. We haven't so much as shook hands in years. We only spoke when he got into trouble or to please our parents. Course, I kept an eye on him, which he resented. We are lucky that I was a protective figure for him when he was a child." 

Mycroft rested his head on Sherlock's pillow and endeavored to relax. 

"I'm going to see if John has any chance of getting past the pins. If I can get him thinking rationally about them. Do you mind if I photograph him so that I can show John what we are dealing with?"

Paul quite agreed that John was ideal here, though doubted his ability to handle this. "If not, it will be more than a month before we can put them back together."

Mycroft looked at his brother, who was a full grown, adult man, cuddling against his chest with tear tracks down his face. How easily the human mind could be torn to shreds, especially for people like Moriarty and Moran. 

"Yes, you can. But use caution; pins and needles were often used on John. He might take it the wrong way."

"I'm...deeply aware. I will use caution, the fact that these were used in torture. We have our work cut out for us."

He nodded to Mycroft after snapping a picture of Sherlock and quietly left the room.

Mycroft ended up dropping off into a shallow sleep by his brother. He was exhausted but in an almost manic kind of way that didn't allow him to truly drop off.


	7. Ebb and Flow

John shifted slightly in his sleep and whimpered. Unpleasant images, not quite fully formed pictures or scenes or scenarios, drifted in his mind as abstract ideas or pain and stress. 

Greg pulled himself awake, dragging a hand over his face before checking his watch. It had been hours. He crawled out of bed and grabbed a bottle of water, draining it and rising it in the bin before walking back to John and sitting. 

"John," he called gently to the distressed man, "John, it's okay, you're safe."

John cried out and sat bolt upright, hands held over his head for protection and his eyes wild. He stared at the person in front of him in a panic for several seconds before his expression changed suddenly and drastically. 

"Greg!" He exclaimed and wrapped his arms around his neck. "You're here. I'm glad." The events of the previous day hadn't yet come back to him yet.

Greg wrapped his arms around John, rubbing his back for a moment. "Yeah, John, I'm here. I love you, you're safe. How are you? Seemed frightened when you woke up."

"I thought you had left me," he muttered into Greg's shoulder. "Don't leave me, alright? I don't like it when you aren't here." As John grew more aware of himself, he remembered what had happened with Sherlock. 

"Greg! Did they hurt Sherlock? Did they hurt Sherlock?!"

"No, John, they did not hurt him. I've got to text Paul and see how he is. I've not heard."

He drew John in right and held him close. "I didn't leave you. I was right outside. You...I was scared that...if I brought you back here...I mean, you gave up. I thought..." He cleared his throat, "I thought you were going to make me...I'm sorry, I thought it would help."

John quirked his head to the side as he often did when confused. "You thought I would make you what?" He didn't like the look of distress on Greg's face, and it was more immediate than Sherlock's pain. 

Greg tipped his face down against John's neck for a moment, breathing deep. He spoke against John's skin, the sound muffled as he tried to get the words out steady and calm, despite the deep fear of his worry coming true.

"Make me...I thought you were...the promise. You gave up and you were scared. I thought you'd make me...make me let you go."

John nodded as if the statement had been completely ordinary. "I can't leave. Sherlock would be sad. And you would be sad. I was just...I was just going to lie down and _stop_." It was a bit of a cruel plan. If he just stopped, stopped moving, stopped speaking, nobody would be happy, but nobody would kill themselves. Not as long as there was hope. 

"But Sherlock said things."

Greg nodded against John's neck, letting the reality that he was never going to be enough for John wash over him. He'd always known, but the reminders still stung. 

"What did he say?" He asked quietly as he drew back.

"He said that he doesn't want to die, but he can't handle what he's lost." John had found that very comforting. He could give Sherlock back what he had lost, find something else, or help him forget. Then, he could leave. It was simple, A to B logic, but it was all he was capable of. 

"And that I'm not ruined, I'm a mountain."

Greg watched John explain with a smile on his lips. "That's...a mountain? Well you seem...happy and that is brilliant. I'm glad he helped you. I'm sorry you were so afraid. Do you want me to see how he is or...we can work on a few other things if not."

John was content to be held, and made no move to pull away. "I don't want to work on anything. Wait, if I can make you happy, I'll do that. I want to do that." He leaned back a bit and smiled at Greg. 

It was a bit forced, but hopeful. "We can be happy."

Greg held on to John, leaning into John and giving himself a moment to collect himself. Finally he leaned back, trying Paul with deep worry, hoping no news meant Sherlock had lived.

He pulled John back against him. "I'm glad you two finally spoke. You and he...it's right when you are together."

He read Paul's response, echoing a tense breath. "They saved him. He's alive."

John smiled and the worry bled out of him. "He shouldn't die. He's too smart to die, isn't he? So many murderers would get away. It would be anarchy."

John nuzzled onto Greg, seeking more affection. "Perhaps it used to be right, now it's just...I don't know. Messy. It hurts. Not as bad as before but it's just...there. It's like I'm treading water. I'm fine, and I can tread water for a long time, but I can feel the threat of drowning. I'd just have to let go. If I don't keep myself calm with him I start drowning. And I hate water."

Greg drew back so that he could look at John. "What? No that...that's not how...I had to drag you away. You said...no, you two worked...you don't mean that, John. You don't mean that."

He dragged his hand over his head and closed eyes, taking in a deep, unsteady breath. "You wanted to stay with him, he wanted...John you just...need to remember."

He was nearly desperate now. After all of that, to just have the progress gone...Greg was going to go mad.

"It's alright," John almost whispered and endeavored to pull Greg back to him. "I know what you meant. I was just explaining what's going on inside my head. It's not an easy thing to do, because the words get all confused. It's infuriating sometimes. Sometimes I _know_ that I'm about to panic, and I can _feel_ that something is not going to hurt me, but then I panic anyway and I can't control it. It's difficult. I'm sorry. I'll remember that I wanted to stay, alright?"

Greg nodded, gladly pulling John to him. "I'm sorry, I...thought I was losing you both yesterday. I'm sorry. This is...every day I feel like I'm going to fail. I can't fail, John. I need your help. I know you are trying. I'm trying, too."

John pulled away for a moment and cupped Greg's face. "This is hard for you. I know. I swear, I try to make it easier for you. I don't know what you want, other than for me to be okay. I really do try to be okay. I swear. I'm trying to recover. But...it's so hard. It's easier for me to be happy and okay when you are. I know that just adds more pressure to you, but that's just how it is. If you are proud of me, I am happy."

Greg drew him back into his arms, breathing deep as he hugged him. "I'll try," he whispered, "I'll try."

 _Happy_ was a tall order when they we all so stretched to the limit. "Let's get you a drink, something to eat."

He kept him close, ignoring Paul's request to come see John. "Oh..John...you kept saying you 'won,' yesterday, when you were with Sherlock. What did he say?"

John brightened a little and an idea came to him. Perhaps it could work both ways. If Greg being happy made John happy, then maybe John could be cheerful to influence Greg. He took the man's hands and smiled at him. 

"I won. I won because Moriarty wanted me to hate Sherlock. He wanted me to loathe him. But I don't. He couldn't make me hate him, so he went with fear. I _won!_ I made it through without hating Sherlock."

Tension eased out of Greg's shoulders and he gave John a warm smile. "You're brilliant, you know?"

He leaned in and kissed John's forehead before letting him go, standing up and walking to the small fridge. He returned with a bottle of water and then poked his head out of the room, asking for hot oatmeal.

When he returned he sat down next to John, offering the water. "Tell me what it means to be a mountain?"

John sat cross legged on his bed and waited for Greg to return. Once he was back, John showed him his arm. The skin was tight and utterly destroyed with slashes and burns. There were hardly any gaps between. 

"See? I'm all...not smooth. I used to be, but not anymore. And I'm broken and pitiful. But Sherlock said...something like 'there's nothing smooth or polished about a mountain' or...cliff face, or something, but I'm not pitiful, I'm strong. Just not...polished."

Greg's heart squeezed in a moment of intense gratitude for Sherlock, which was swiftly overshadowed by his grief for the man. Sherlock had been so deeply sad. He'd tried to kill himself. He carried on about his fear of being alone. It had been devastating to hear. He gave John a broad smile and nodded, handing over the water. "Maybe we can get that tube out this week. You will feel so much better without it."

He smiled as a nurse brought in the hot oatmeal, smelling of baked apples and cinnamon, before looking back to John. "He's right, you are a mountain. Nothing pathetic about you."  
John was more comfortable with being near food and water now that his mind was starting to strengthen against the panic, now that he was becoming more buoyant in his ocean of fear and no longer had to paddle endlessly to stay afloat.

"I am a mountain. I like that. I don't feel like a mountain, but I can't really trust what I think anymore, can I? When you first came into my room, all those months ago,I thought it was to torture me. I can't trust my thoughts." 

Greg stood up and clicked on the telly, putting on a movie John consistently found humorous, before sitting back down.

"No, can't trust them yet, but you can trust me. Does that smell okay? You like Mrs Hudson's pies, I hoped this would be close. Watch this with me and let's see how much progress you can make."

John looked at the food. When he knew it was for Greg, it was almost non-threatening. Almost. It was like wearing a weight vest while treading water, but only a light one. 

"I really want to make you happy," he insisted once more. It had happened once, he had seen such glee on Greg's face and was perusing it since. 

"If you could eat some of that and get that whole bottle of water down by the end of the day, I'd be...god I can hardly imagine how amazing that would be," Greg responded, keeping his eyes on the telly and bumping his shoulder against John's lightly. He was doing his best to behave as normal as possible, as though John eating were not their Everest.

John wrinkled his nose and looked daunted. A whole water bottle? Water bottles were very frightening, especially near his face. 

"I...You'll be happy?" He quieted the painful twinge of panic in his chest and stared at the food. 

"I'll try everything I can, Greg, but that sounds...god, that sounds terrible. You'll have to remind me why I'm doing it, and that I won't be hurt...it's going to be difficult. Can I have a stray? Water bottles are...challenging."

Greg looked over at him and then the bottle, speaking gently, "How about a cup with a straw and lid?" He stood up, not waiting for John to respond, swelling with pride at John's use of clear language and calm in the face of fear.

He returned with a white cup talking with ice, the entire bottle of water poured into it, and a straw poking through the lid. "Start with a small bit of the food, that may help. I love you, and when you take care of yourself, you take care of me. This is taking care of yourself, and it helps me worry less. That takes away my sadness, and makes me happy." Fuck, how he hated making it about him.

John took the cup and willed himself to continue articulating properly. He could make proper progress now that he had an actual reason to recover. "I am going to make you less stressed, then." He stared at the food, plastic spoon in hand. "Just keep talking. I'm going to forget that this is okay." John hated this. He was willingly handing over his calm, almost logical state for one of panic and chaos. It was much like standing on a pier looking over a stormy ocean and knowing that you were about to jump in. 

The first bite wasn't so bad. The food tasted nice, and he kept his eyes open and on Greg. It was only when he swallowed and realized that he was eating that he grew nervous.

_Aren't you hungry, John? Come on, I won't beat you this time. I swear. Scout's honor._

John scowled. "Leave me alone."

Greg had long since figured out that John heard Moriarty all the time. He nodded, "Tell that beggar to piss off, he already lost. You are doing great, brilliant so far, just brilliant."

He jumped into a commentary about the movie then, pointing at times and ensuring he held John's focus for the next few minutes.

John breathed deeply and took another bite. "T-Tell me that...that I'm not going to be hurt," he asked in a voice that had a raw highness to it that betrayed how he was failing at keeping calm. He decided that instead of normal sized bites with time between, he could just take tiny morsels and keep going. Just keep going. Just keep going. Just keep-

_Oh, dear! John, are you eating? You know what I told you about that. I suppose I'll have to do another training session. Whip, or knife? It's your choice, John. It's always your choice._

"Piss off."

Greg wrapped his arm behind John's back and spoke to him quickly. "I will tear the throat out of anyone who makes the mistake of trying to hurt you. No one will hurt you. You will not be hurt. There will be no pain, John. None. Take a break, out your spoon down, have a sip from your straw, and watch this a minute. Don't get lost."

"Okay. Okay." John's mind was whirling and his attempts at stopping it were like trying to catch a hurricane in a butterfly net or stop a wave with your bare hands. "I'm trying...it's...it's hurting..." John shook his head. 

"It's scaring me. I'm panicking. I am starting to panic." He gripped the cup tightly in one hand and dug his fingernails into his thigh through the fabric of his sweatpants. 

Greg took the cup away and set it aside, pulling John into his arms and holding him tight. "Tell me where you are, and who is with you. Stay here. I have you. Breathe."

John dug his fingers into his hair. "I-I'm at a secure facility that Mycroft works...ah...Greg's here, not hurting, just scared. Greg is here. I'm alright. I'll be fine. Just drinking. Hydrogen and oxygen. Not going to hurt me."

Greg closed his eyes, disheartened. He'd had John drinking at the mental hospital, but the shakeup and his following error made that progress list. Now, he doubted he'd be enough for John to manage it.

"It's alright," he said quietly, rubbing John's back, his own endurance low and weak, "that was a good try today, John. Maybe...maybe when Sherlock is awake, he can help."

He instantly felt a fool for saying so. Sherlock had lately died less than a day ago. To task him with putting John back together, while he was still so damaged... "it's alright, John."

John looked crestfallen and he reached for the cup again. "No, please!" He held it in slightly trembling, frail hands. 

"I can do this. Just give me a chance. I'm going to make you proud of me." He put the straw in his mouth and continued his little routine of sipping just a tiny amount and keeping the water high in the straw. He got _just under_ half of the drink before he stopped and held his head in one hand. "I'm going t-to g-get this."

Greg wondered, in the back recesses of his mind, when he had become so thin skinned. This was like watching John whip himself. He kept a hand on John's back, and leaned in to kids his temple. "Sherlock was right, you are the indomitable cliff face, the mountain. Brilliant of him. God I'm proud of you."

Paul texted again, and again Greg ignored him. He pulled John in closer to his side, wishing there was more he could do to distract him. They were going to have to get him properly washed today. How the hell they were going to manage that was beyond him.

John mentally abused himself now for being unable to make Greg happy. _Stupid. Worthless. Weak_. It had been a week since he last managed, and he desperately needed that excitement. "I'm okay...I'm okay... I'm going to do this. I'm going to do this." He put the straw back in his mouth, though he was whimpering softly and his muscles tensed. 

He managed to get three quarters down before he broke once more, crying this time, shuddering and reaching out for Greg.

"D-Don't take it! I'll g-get this! I-I p-promise!" He turned his face away from Greg in shame and retracted his arms as if he didn't deserve to be held. 

Greg's heart locked up as John pulled away from him. "Hey, hey wait. Why are you leaving me? I want to hold you," he said sadly, reaching for John again. "Please don't leave, please. I only push you because I'm trying to help." He was nearly in tears now, loathing that yet again, he had made John retreat from him. 

"Please don't be afraid of me. Please."

As soon as John realized that Greg wasn't disappointed or cross, he crawled over and laid down in his lap like an injured puppy. "I'm not afraid of you, Greg. I don't deserve you."

Greg sank his fingers in John's hair and wrapped his other hand around John's bicep, trying to keep them both steady. Sherlock had done more for John in fifteen minutes than Greg had managed in a month.

"No...you deserve better," he managed tightly, soaking in self-loathing.

John shook his head and pressed his face against Greg's chest. God, how he needed that man. John depended on him like he depended on air.  
"I want to make you happy. Let me try again. I-I'll get it this time." John took the cup once more, the thing that would hurt him, would cause him mental terror and rip apart his small bits of treasured control. "I l-l-love y-you."

Greg reached down and took the cup, setting it aside. "John, please stop for a few minutes, just stop. I love you too, you don't have to do this all at once. Just...give yourself some time, John. I don't want you to panic here. Please, god I hate seeing you like this, please slow down. I'm sorry, Christ I'm sorry. I'm not very good at...any of this."

John snatched the cup right back and held it despite the nauseating sound of water sloshing around. John gagged and put his hand over his mouth, but kept a firm grip on the cup. 

"No! I-I am going t-to get this! Please, let m-me do this." 

He was breathing in short gasps and had a hard time getting the straw into his mouth. John stayed still, breathing regularly through his nose to remind himself he could, and pressed on despite his panic. 

Greg lost hold of the damn tear that spilled over his lashes as John gagged. He quit trying to stop John, taking in a deep breath and closing his eyes. He was losing his endurance for this. He ran his fingers through John's hair as he dashed his hand across his eyes, briefly wondering if he should just sedate John until Sherlock could care for him. He was going to have to pretend he was happy, if John managed the whole thing, and he had no idea how he was going to pull that off.

John gagged again as he started to lose touch with what was happening. He could feel water in his mouth, and that was generally a bad thing. His eyes flew wide and he looked around. No blood on the floors, no Moriarty. Just Greg. Just Greg. 

He was so close. Just a few more sips. The end was right there, his prize within reach. John struggled against the hurricane of terror in his mind and strained his ears to hear that quiet little voice that told him what was really going on. "H-help," he whispered, eyes closed. "Tell m-me what's h-happening."

Adrenaline spiked through Greg's heart as John whispered for help. He swallowed against the dread of the impending chaos that was sure to follow.

"I'm here. You are safe. You can stop at any time. No pain. You are safe," he assured, trying to keep his voice stay. This was the opposite of what he'd been going for, nearly in tears himself. John was going tip want him happy, if he finished, and Greg was tearing at his mind to find the feeling, that task seemingly impossible.

John was clawing towards the finish line. This damned cup with 16 ounces of water in it was proving to be his Everest, nearly insurmountable. He wept openly and the water on his face did little to help his fear. 

When he finally finished, when he finally got the last sip down past a hard gag and the straw was empty, John collapsed into a shivering heap. He was too panicked to be proud of himself, and curled himself into Greg. "D-d-do-o-on-ne."

How could Greg smile in the face of this sort of suffering? He was indescribably proud of John, and indescribably pained to see the man gagging and choking on fear. He lay down right next to John, wrapping a blanket over both of them and drawing John to his chest. For a long while he did not dare speak.

Finally he whispered to him, "I'm so proud of you," to the crown of John's head, keeping tight hold of him, gutted and feeling each of John's shivers like a blow. He was likely going about this all wrong. "I love you, I'm so proud. I'm so sorry it hurts."

John gagged once more when they were under the blankets, but quickly began to calm. He cried for several minutes at the sheer stress of what he had done and clung to Greg like a sick child. 

When he finally recovered from his terror, when his triumph filtered into his mind, John breathed a shaky but pleased exhale. "I d-did it. You said it would be...I don't remember, but it was a good thing."

Greg lay there listening to John cry, feeling the material of his shirt dampen, as John shook apart. He put all his energy in keeping his cheeks dry, refusing to cry with John. By the time John started to speak, he felt as small as a mouse.

"It's good, John. Really good. You did so well, I know that was frightening." He slid his fingers through John's hair and wished the ceiling would fall in.

Where was the elation? John wiped the tears off his face with the sleeve in his shoulder and sniffed. "I did it," he repeated, more clearly this time.

"I did it. You said it would be really good if I did. I...what did I do wrong?"

He was failing John. He cleared his throat and did his damndest to sound thrilled. "You did nothing wrong, John! I'm so proud of you! I'd meant for you to work on it all day and you just did it in one go, that's incredible."

He smiled as broadly as he could even as his eyes watered, "I'm so proud of you."

John could sense that something was wrong, but he so desperately needed something that wasn't _depressing_ in his life that he ignored it. He smiled back at Greg. Perhaps if he was happy, Greg would be too. "

All at once is better. Now we can be happy all day! Can we go to the tree and have a walk? And bring the cards? I'll go easy on you this time."

Greg nodded, deciding to leave John's need of food out of it. "Sure, we absolutely can." He sat up and scrubbed a hand over his eyes, grabbing his clothes and taking a few minutes in the bathroom.

He came out dressed and washed, going right for John's medicines and the damn syringe that would be John's breakfast. "Get this out of the way and we can go."

His phone vibrated yet again with a message from Paul, and again he ignored it.

John was a bit confused and disappointed. Greg didn't seem nearly as pleased with him as he did before and John was quick to blame himself. _Stupid. Worthless. Can't even drink water. Can't even make Greg happy. He'll probably leave. Worthless._

John whined but did his best to keep the same happy demeanor that had come so naturally when Greg scooped him up and hugged him out of delight, back when he had done it right. 

Greg did not speak until he was finished giving John his feeding and pills. He touched the side of John's face and spoke softly. "I didn't mean to make you hurt so bad. I just want to help and...I'm so proud of you. Things will be better when you've got proper help. I'm not doing this...right. let's go sit at your tree and play cards, yeah?"

John took Greg's hand and pulled him towards the path. The only exercise he got outside of this tree was walking from his bed to the floor, or to Sherlock's room, or when he struggled. He wasn't normal looking, or even simply thin, but he had filled out a bit from the high calorie meals he was being fed and was less bony in the elbows and knees. 

"Stop saying that," he said quietly and looked at the ground ahead of him. "That you aren't doing things right. You are. You are proper help."

Greg followed along, holding John's hand and despising himself bitterly. "I'm sorry, John, you've done so well today. You wanted me to be happier than this, I'm sorry. It's not you, it's me. I'm so proud of you."

He wondered what Sherlock would be able to manage with John. He'd have him eating and drinking by now, for sure. How many times had Greg tried to tell John he'd won, only for the words to fall flat?

An old, deep ache reared its head as he stared his inadequacy in the face. Likely he wouldn't get John to drink again now that he couldn't be properly happy. If he kept on cocking everything up, he was going to remove himself. He'd never met a soul that was better off for having known him. "I am proud of you, John."

John stopped in front of Greg and looked him in the eyes. For the first time since the night they went out for drinks, the one full of laughter when John believed himself on his way to Africa, John wasn't searching for comfort with his glance. He searched Greg's eyes as a friend would, a worried friend, and concern drew up his features. 

"Greg, tell me what's wrong." In that moment, just for that one sentence, he sounded like himself. 

Greg stopped short, staring at John as his heart squeezed and his chest locked up. _John_ peaked through the haze of abuse and torment, speaking to Greg in such a familiar way that it made Greg want to break apart. John had always been the man he'd gone to when he'd felt like this in the past, and though he'd never told John of his long standing struggles with self worth, John had never failed to make him feel alright about himself after a few drinks and a laugh. 

He realized with a start that he'd been holding his breath as he deeply ached to have just a few minutes with the man, and he forced himself to inhale. The words tumbled out of him before he could stop himself, as he stared at John, tears suddenly sliding down over his lashes. 

"I am not enough," he breathed, shaking his head without taking his eyes off John. "Not that that's a new thing, or I ever thought I'd be on the same level as Sherlock, it's not...I am messing this up. You just did such a brave, amazing thing and I can't-" he bit down on his lip and looked away, feeling sick at his stomach. 

John fought to keep the memories at bay and access a part of himself that was nearly gone. "Greg, I don't know if you hear me when I say it, but I love you. I can't breathe right when you aren't there. I understand that you are human and you won't always be perfect, but I don't need you to say the perfect things." He pulled Greg into a proper hug and patted his back. 

“You are exactly what I need because I can tell that you love me. I know it. You're a protective and loving and loyal man and I need that." 

John sighed and dropped his head to Greg's shoulder. It was exhausting to articulate so well. "But it hurts...it is difficult to do things for my own benefit. I need to have a reason to eat. Making you happy is the only one I have and...god, when you were so proud of me last time, that was the happier I can ever remember being in my whole life."

Greg leaned into the hug gratefully and closed his eyes. He could feel the anxiety gnawing at his endurance and reached into his pocket with shaking fingers, grabbing one of the pills Paul had prescribed for him and swiftly taking it, even as he leaned into John without making the man shoulder any of his weight. 

John was confusing 'love,' with 'desperately need protection,' and while that was okay, it still left Greg reeling. Months and months of walking the razor's edge with John's welfare on the line was finally becoming too much, leaving Greg brittle and easily tipped. He'd tried to give John other reasons. _When you take care of yourself, you take care of me_ , so on and so forth, but that wasn't going to do anything for John. He needed a broad smile and something that he personally could feel the effect of. Simply helping Greg a bit was never going to do it. It felt obscene to try and muster an actual, proper smile, happiness seemingly gone from him permanently now. 

"I am so proud of you," he rasped, nodding and desperately trying to get John to understand that he was brilliantly proud of him, "I don't know how you do this, you are so much stronger than I am. I can't believe you got down 16oz of water today, I mean it was fantastic. I mean that John, I do. It's just...so...it hurts you so badly and I have a hard time getting..." 

_Sherlock died and Mycroft is falling apart and Moran is free, you thought I was going to assault you last night and I made a massive mistake bringing you back in the room to calm you down and god Mycroft's face when you shouted at him while Sherlock's heart was stopped and it was all going to hell and I added to that and then I nearly lost you again and-_

Greg made a small sound of distress at the back of his throat and he tore out of his thoughts. "Sorry, I'm sorry. I love you and you deserve whatever you want after making that effort. I'm trying to get it together. I am sorry. This is so extremely unfair to you. Sherlock is stronger than me, you'll always have someone that will protect you, John. You will always have that, I promise."

John had very simple desires. Primarily, he wanted to not panic any more. He would give anything to have complete control of his mind. He also wanted Greg and Sherlock to be happy. He wanted to help. His twisted mind, desperate and clutching for assurance, could only see himself making things worse. The pain he caused, the way people looked sad around him and put on a battle face when entering his room, hurt him terribly. He knew he was hurting people, hurting Greg, that the man was falling apart and nothing he did had ever seemed to help. John held on to the memory of Greg smiling that one _beautiful_ time when John had done something right like a drowning man clings to a raft. 

 

John had tried to show Greg that he mattered. He drank water, ate food, spoke clearly, all for Greg. To John, it was the same effort as if he were whipping himself or slashing his own skin. "I...I'm trying," he said and his voice slipped down to desperation rather suddenly. 

"I do those things for you. I wake up because of you. I wouldn't speak if you didn't want me to, and I wouldn't get out of bed, and I wouldn't move. I have no....no motivation to do anything. It's exhausting to have normal conversations. It hurts to be awake. I am alive because you asked me to be. I know it's not enough, and it hurts you to watch me try because I panic...and either way I hurt you. If I don't eat, you have to use the tube and you always look like you're in _pain_ when you do it. And if I do eat, I panic, and _god_ , I try not to. I swear to you, Greg, I am trying so hard to be good enough." John looked around for somewhere to sit. This was draining him _physically_ and his knees had grown weak. "But when I eat, it hurts you because I panic, and when I don't you use the tube and it hurts you, and if I did neither I would die and it would hurt you a-and I-I keep hurting you and _I'm so sorry._ " 

Greg felt John's knees slipping and he pulled him in close to his chest, taking as much of his weight as he could. "John," he breathed as he moved them over to John's tree and eased them down. He pulled John to his lap, cradling him sideways across his chest and holding him there, rocking him slightly. 

"God you're right, you're right, you do all those things for me," he whispered against the side of John's head, pressing a kiss there and closing his eyes, "I'm sorry, I'm such an idiot sometimes. I'm not sad when I look at _you_ , John. I'm not. I love spending time with you, and I'm...god I'm sorry. I'm sorry." 

He locked his arms around John and held him desperately, pushing aside his cloying self-hatred in an effort to center his mind, which is what John so deeply needed. Mycroft had the ability to sharply focus, to keep calm no matter, and Greg envied that so much he could taste it. It was humiliating to be among these men who had such better fortitude than he, his failure constantly on display. 

"You are already good enough, John. I wish I could help you see that. It's not about being good enough, it's about taking care of you. I...I don't know how to put the right words together, I don't know- it doesn't matter. I know you are not trying to hurt me, you _aren't_ hurting me. I'm...you aren't hurting me. I am hurting _with you_ not...not _from you_. That...probably makes no sense...I wish I was more like..." he shook his head and curled around John, whispering along the dam that held him back from breaking down.

John was glad to be being held again, but he was still terribly upset with himself. 

_The first month of his torture had been Moriarty's favorite. He had gotten to slowly wear down the spark in John's eyes, the fire in his breast, and the stubbornness in his mind. "You're going to hurt him so terribly, John. You're going to hurt everyone. You'll be a burden, they will all pretend to love you, but you'll be a torment to them all." John had struggled against his chains that kept him still on the wall and growled at Moriarty, though he couldn't quite speak. No, he was just slightly too weak with blood loss to form articulate sentences. "Oh, you'll be such a burden. Always screaming. You're going to scream, John. Come on, let's hear a scream." A crowbar was smashed across his shins and he unwillingly obliged._

John whimpered and buried his face in Greg's neck. "Y-You're h-hurting because I-I'm hurting. I drank water for you. I ate some food. I- Did I not eat enough? Sh-should I g-go get more?" 

Greg shoved his own mind behind iron barriers and turned John so that he could take John's face between his hands. "John. You drank a full cup of water this morning. A full cup," he tipped their foreheads together and drew in a deep, steady breath, "You are so incredibly brilliant, I am so proud of you. Look at me," he drew back and put all his focus on what it felt like to see John conquer the water. A moment later he was able to give him an honest smile. He did not speak as he pulled up the way it had felt to see John manage that. For a few minutes, he put all his effort to just the feeling of watching John tell the voice in his head to _piss off_ as he went again and again at what scared him horribly, until he was finally, properly grinning at him. 

"I'm so damn proud of you. You drank water for me, just like I asked you to. I am so happy with you, John. You don't need to do anything else right now." 

John nodded and kept his eyes closed. "I...Greg, I really don't think you're okay. You're sad. You're so so sad. You're always sad. I wish I could help you. I try, but I always make it worse in the progress. I make it so much worse. But I promise you, Greg, I promise right now that I will be able to drink water without panicking. I will be able to do those things you want me to do without being sad. I won't hurt you. I'll recover and stop hurting you. But until then...It's going to hurt both of us, this...this re-training."

Greg's eyes burned as he forced himself to carry on smiling, as much as he was able without looking like a complete nutter. His breathing was just shy of normal as he forced himself to keep strict control of himself. He despised that John thought of him as a trainer, that their interactions were training. How did that make him any better than the last people who had hold of him? 

He licked his lip and began to speak, only to stop when he was sure his voice was going to waver. For a few minutes he made the valiant effort to keep the smile on his face as his heart broke, trying with all he had to remain steady for John. "I'm with you. No matter, John, I'm with you until you don't want me anymore." 

"Is that what you think will happen?" John asked and an almost alarmed look clouded his face. "That I'll just...leave you? I'll get tired of you? Greg...I can't breathe without you!" It sounded terribly sappy out if context, and if someone were to view them just at that moment, it might seem like some terrible soap opera, not a man who had been tortured to the point of needed constant emotional support. 

"I'm not going to just toss you away. Once I'm better, once I'm alright, I'll help you. I'll do everything I can to help you."

Greg kept his face tipped down to the top of John's head, not for a moment wanting John to have access to his expression. He swallowed and kept himself breathing as steadily as he could. For John to be considering helping _him_ later was...hell, he didn't even know what that was. His chin dipped and quivered on him and he held his breath as the sting at his lashes threatened to slide into loosed tears and he just held John tight. All of the things John was saying were only temporarily true. The goal was to get him where he could breathe without the help of anyone at all, and then get him back home with Sherlock, where John had always thrived. It was endearing to hear that John never planned to leave him. His own children had said that they could never imagine leaving him either, and had their mother not done that for them, they'd have eventually flown the nest. 

He kept his grip on John, making an effort to keep the words tightly held in his memory for when he needed the sound of John's affection later. "Okay, John," he whispered, trying to push as much gratitude into his tone as possible. 

John was distraught. He had hoped for a day of happiness following his bravery with the water, and instead Greg was seeming seriously depressed. John, terrified of hurting him, blamed himself heavily. 

"I'll not leave you," he said again, as that was clearly the point of issue. "Why would I? You make me happy. You helped me speak. You carry me when I can't walk and you keep me from panicking all the time. I need you, alright? And even if someday I won't, I'll still want you around." John nuzzled his face onto Greg's neck and shut his eyes. 

"Tomorrow will be better. I'll...I'll eat all the oatmeal and drink the water. I'll be normal and speak right and we can walk around and do normal things. Will that make you happy?"

Paul found them on the lawn. He'd been texting Greg constantly and then resorted to calling him, and Greg was very clearly just ending the call, killing it on the first ring, blocking him out. He'd never done so before, and after the night they'd all had, he was loath to just leave them alone. He approached from John's vantage point, intentionally walking in his line of sight. He was in Greg's lap, and Greg was hanging on to him in a manner that looked nothing short of desperate. Neither seemed to be doing well. 

"Hello, John," he said with a gentle smile, crouching down and lacing his fingers together over his knee, "Greg. I've just come to see how you are doing, and John, to see if I could get your help with something." 

John saw Paul approaching when his eyes made their habitual nervous sweep over the courtyard. "Greg," he muttered and poked him as Paul drew near.

John eyed Paul warily, but was less stressed when the man was outside. "My help?" John didn't know he had much of a use anymore, and while he wasn't generally thrilled about helping Paul, he wished to show that he wasn't a leaching burden on everyone. "I'll help. I think. What is it you want? Is it Sherlock? Is he okay?"

Greg looked over at Paul but did not otherwise move much. He shifted so that he could look at Paul, holding on to John just as tight as before. 

Paul nodded to John, answering swiftly. "Sherlock is resting, his brother is with him. He had a very...difficult surgery. We know that the room he is in now is very similar to one of the rooms he was held in before his rescue. I would very much like to...make it more comfortable for him. When he is in physical pain, he often forgets where he is and what is happening. John, I thought you might have some good insight into what would help. Oh, and I've put the clock and the calendar that Greg asked for up in your room. There are two, actually. A large day calendar for you to plan out the days, if you want, and a smaller year calendar, where I've marked the dates that matter, starting with the day Sherlock found you. I do hope this will help. Greg, it was a very good thought." 

He looked up at Greg, noting how the man was struggling with himself and choosing not to remark on it just yet. "So John, I know that softer effects will help, and we've decided not to make it look like Baker Street until he's more consistently lucid. Do you have any suggestions?"

"A clock and calendar is a good idea. Thank you, Greg. I wasn't able to keep time with Moriarty." 

John was relieved that he could help without actually going through any physical pain, and he quickly wracked his brain for something that would calm Sherlock. "Well, the whole white room is kind of scary. So...paint it or put up paper. Having a window helps. I never got to see any windows. You kind of forget when it's day and when it's night, especially when you aren't allowed to sleep. Maybe let him look out at the tree. A clock is nice. But he might now trust it, so a window is good. Uhm... Mrs. Hudson liked to listen to music a lot, but I suppose we'll not want him to associate that sound with what's happening now...Maybe something for him to look at? Something for his brain? He gets so bored so quickly. It helps me when I've got something to look at. Not sure what he would like, I don't really know what went on up there in his brain. Science posters? Something that wouldn't have been with Moran. I suppose it doesn't really matter what, as long as it's something Moran didn't have. He should have a couch too. Those rooms never had any furniture, and Sherlock always curled up on couches." 

John thought out loud for another minute before stopping and looking to Greg. "What else? What else did Sherlock like? I suppose he can't do any experiments. The main thing is to just make it different. He was looking for differences before, saying the number of panels was different here than there."

Greg spoke softly, sliding a hand through John's hair as he did, avoiding making eye contact with Paul. "John has a blanket that he loves. Sherlock might have something like that at the flat. He wore that damned dressing gown all the time, might settle him down. Telly, get him a telly and play him movies, since he can't do any of the other things that he likes." 

His mind went to the large bandage across Sherlock's neck and he shivered, pulling John in closer to him. He'd talked a gun out of John's hand before, and his stomach twisted at the memory of being just a few pounds of pressure away from losing him. 

Paul smiled at John, "Okay, those are good suggestions. We can't move him yet, not to a room with a window. He's not exactly stable, but we will try as soon as he's better. He asked after you right when he woke, I know your visit did him a world of good. How are you feeling after that, I imagine it was stressful." 

John kissed Greg's cheek when he contributed to the efforts of comforting Sherlock. He was still greatly worried about the man, as his behavior had recently been growing more depressed and slightly unstable. 

"Yes, his dressing gown might help. It helped me to have my own clothes. These are more comfortable, but I like having the option." He played with the bottom hem of his grey sweatpants and looked at Greg for a moment, then back to Paul.

Generally, John did not trust Paul. But Greg did, and that would just have to be enough for him. When he was certain Greg wasn't looking, John cast an incredibly worried, pleading look to Paul and mouthed; _something's wrong._

John was prepared for anything. If a doctor tried to take Greg, he would kill them. But Paul was Greg's friend. Perhaps he would help.  
Paul was stunned to see John make such a move. There were oceans of meaning behind that slipped, secretive communication. Paul was well aware that John was always wary of him, but John guarded Greg fiercely, and if he trusted Paul enough to help Greg, well that said quite a bit. He nodded to John in a way that signaled his understanding. 

"Nurses informed me that you had oatmeal and water brought to your room today, how did that go?" He asked softly, suspecting some sort of situation involving John pushing himself involved. Greg had been more and more sensitive to being anything remotely painful for John ever since John suspected Greg of raping him. He'd never really recovered from that. It was something Paul was going to have to push with the DI. 

Greg spoke before John had a chance to. "John did brilliantly. He managed to get down sixteen ounces in one sitting, nibbled at the oatmeal. He was incredible. I..." Greg cleared his throat and swallowed before carrying on, "did not hold up my end of the deal. John did amazingly well, though." 

Paul's expression shifted slightly as he obviously tried to understand what Greg was on about. "What deal is that, John?"

Hearing that Greg hadn't held up on his end of the deal hurt John for some reason, though he knew it to be true. The infallibility of Greg was something that he subconsciously leaned on.

"I don't like drinking water," John began, being as articulate as he possibly could. "I hate it. It feels...very out of my control. I...It pains me to not be in control. But last time it made Greg very happy that I had managed half a glass, and that made me happy. I can't make myself do these things for myself. I just can't. But if I'm trying to make Greg happy, I can. And then, I get to be happy too. But...This time he wasn't happy with me." John's lip stuck out in a childish pout and his voice grew thick. "I don't know what I did wrong...but...I..." His articulation began to fail him and he curled into Greg. 

"He said I didn't do anything wrong, but...I'm stuck. If I eat and panic, it makes him sad. If I don't, he needs to use the tube, which makes him sad. If I do neither, I'd die, and he would be sad. I tried not to panic when I ate, I _swear_ I did. But I failed."

Paul watched the effect of Greg's shortcoming on John, and then like clockwork, the effect guilt had on Greg. John caved in on himself, obviously deeply hurt, and Greg pinched his eyes closed and stopped breathing as he tipped his forehead down to the top of John's head. They were stuck in a fantastic feedback loop. Greg had been able, earlier, before he'd shattered his confidence with his error in the shower and then John's suspicion of him with the suspected assault, to put a stop to the cycle. He'd been able to watch John suffer through things what were good for him, knowing he wasn't the one hurting John. That, presumably, had eroded away. 

He decided to try and treat Greg by proxy, using John as the medium. Greg had a tight hold of John as he whispered to the top of John's head, "I'm so sorry," voice tight and deeply saddened. 

Paul jumped in before it began to get out of hand. "John. Do you feel safe with Greg? Do you trust him?"

John was instantly made defensive by Paul's question before he recalled to mind that he had asked for help. "Of course I feel safe. It's _Greg_." John spoke as if that were all the evidence he needed. At each mistake Greg made, starting with the shower, John had been easily bruised and made fearful. One could hardly blame him for being delicate, but it did nothing to help Greg's guilt. Despite being hurt so easily, John had always recovered quickly. He needed Greg so desperately that even if he had been injured, he would have returned like a kicked puppy to an abusive master. 

Luckily for both of them, once he was lucid, John was able to see that the mistakes had been just that, and he had no need to hate or fear Greg. "I love Greg. I am better when he is here. He holds me and keeps me from panicking." Even when John wasn't in fear, when he didn't feel the nagging terror, he preferred to be held or in some sort of physical contact with Greg. 

Paul winked at John for his quick understanding of the situation, openly pleased with him. Greg had his eyes pinched closed, breathing through it. He did not understand his own intense grief. There was no particular reason for it. Sadness and guilt overshadowed each of John's words and weight like a sodden wool blanket over his shoulders, similar to the times he'd so catastrophically erred with John's care. Only this time all he'd failed to do was smile. The pressure was nearly unbearable. 

Again Paul spoke, nodding to John to help keep him in the mentality that what was being asked was mostly for Greg's benefit, though it was for John's as well. It would never hurt to have the man repeat his thoughts and feelings of Greg. "And when you panic when you are trying to master the water...is it Greg that's causing you the anxiety? Would it help if Greg was not there while you tried?"

John was able to answer with complete and utter honesty when he exclaimed; "No!" John held Greg just a bit closer to him and shook his head. "It wouldn't help if Greg were gone! It's better when he is here. It's always better with Greg. I couldn't...last time he left I thought I was going to die. The time before that I hid under the damned bed. And before, he was only gone for a few minutes and I panicked and hid under the covers. I get worse without Greg. I need him." His last sentence was no longer directed towards Paul, with whom he was having a conversation that was primarily meant for Greg. 

John glanced up at Paul. "I need him because he makes things better. I wouldn't like the tree without him. He picks out the right movies and knows when to play certain songs. He knows better than I do how to calm me down, and when we go stressful places, or anywhere, he brings my blanket and hands me the part I like to rub. He knows how I like to be held and what I need to hear when I panic."

Paul nodded as Greg nuzzled down against the side of John's head, breathing in deep and letting the affirmation wash over him. While the guilt of each incident that had made him 'leave' was there, sharp and whole like a tangible thing, it was good to hear that any of his efforts made any bit of difference. He'd yet to stave off one of John's panic attacks, and felt utterly useless on the whole, but it mattered to John even if it never helped, and that was a good thing, at the least.

Paul nodded again to John and then pressed on. This was likely helpful to Greg, but they'd not quite gotten into the meat of it. "John, when Greg asks you to try water or food, do you believe he is trying to hurt you?"

John shook his head and tried with every ounce in his being to sound articulate. "No, not at all. He is helping me. He is only helping me. It hurts, and I panic, but through no fault of Greg's." John took Greg's hand and kissed it. 

"Greg wouldn't hurt me, I know it. I am willing to do things that frighten me because I love and trust him. He knows what is best, and I follow him."

Greg pinched his eyes closed as he abruptly and unwillingly heard John begging for him not to hurt him, crying for an explanation for why Greg had held him down and allowed a man to rape him. He nearly groaned at the memory of it, still so fresh and recent. John absolutely thought that Greg would hurt him, had not hesitated to believe something so horrific. Not that it was John's fault, it absolutely was not, but that did not change the fact that John still readily believed that Greg would so terribly harm him. No, John had seen him as a monster. 

Paul caught the moment Greg's face began to fall as John spoke. He narrowed his eyes in thought, trying to decide how best to get at this without upsetting John. 

He spoke quietly then, talking directly to John. "Sherlock had a similar experience as you, didn't he, John? He believed you'd sent people to hurt him, when really you were just worried about his condition."

 _Oh, god_. Was that what Greg was feeling? John had felt terrible when Sherlock blamed him. The worst part was that he hadn't been angry. John could deal with anger. But the pleading? The betrayal? It had hurt more than John had expected, and he and pain were old and dear acquaintances now. 

"I...yeah, he thought I sent doctors to rape him." John was ashamed of the act even though he hadn't committed it. 

"Greg, I'm sorry I thought...I don't still think you...I was confused, please, I..." John shook his head and dug his fingers into his hair. Before this ordeal, he had never understood those who pulled at their hair when grieving, as if baldness would lessen their pain. Now, it was a frequent occurrence. "I understand, Paul. He is in pain. Greg is in pain. Greg, please, I didn't mean to. I didn't...I just...The knot, and you...I'm sorry. I know you didn't help Paul rape me. I know that. I know it now." 

Greg tightened his hold on John as John began to pull his hair. " _Paul_ ," he hissed, looking up at him in shock, furious that he would upset John like that. He immediately began trying to soothe John down, taking one wrist in his hand gently and easing it away from John's head. 

"Hey, hey, it's alright. It was never your fault, I was never mad at you for being confused," he tried to assure with such haste he was nearly tripping on his words, desperate to keep John from panicking. His own heart began to race in his chest, pounding as though he were running a marathon, unintentionally exposing his deep anxiety over John's panic episodes. 

"Please, John, it's fine. I know you found the knot and- and you remembered my face and- it's- please, it's okay-" he stammered as he shot Paul another enraged glance, finally seeing what the man had been trying to do. "John I never held that against you. It doesn't matter how I feel I just want to help. I shouldn't have held on to you, I shouldn't have sedated you, I should never have let anyone examine you. I shouldn't have- god, so many things, I'm- it's okay, I keep giving you reasons to- I keep messing up, of course you'd doubt-" 

Paul listened to Greg choking on both his effort to keep John calm, ironically rising to his own state of panic. The reaction was instantaneous to John's distress and much faster in its progression than he'd seen previously. 

John was frightened now. He had expected soft words, calm reassurances and gentle persuasions. Not this. Not this raw fear and anxiety. John, poor, defeated John, was so easily influenced by the emotions of others that his own heart rate spiked. "I...I didn't...I don't blame you," he breathed quickly and cast a nervous glance over to Paul. 

"Let's be quiet now, alright? Let's stop. Please just stop." John knew he had made the wrong decision somewhere along the line and was too sure of his own incompetence to attempt at making it better. The only thing he knew was that he was going to start panicking if Greg continued to be anxious. "I know you weren't angry, I was just saying I was sorry. Let's go inside, alright? Let's go put on a movie and we can stay in bed and this will all be alright." He nuzzled his nose under Greg's jaw and breathed a shaky exhale. _Now is not the time to lose control. Stay together. Stay together._

John dug his fingernails into the rough, scarred palm of his hand and started to shake. "Paul?" He asked cautiously, not knowing where else to turn. "What do I do?"

Greg did not give Paul a chance to answer. He tightened his hold on John and spoke softly, "It's alright," he whispered against the side of John's head, "I've got us, okay? I've got us." He carefully stood up with John in his arms and began to walk to the building. Paul jogged to catch up, opening the door for them and keeping quiet. He followed along as Greg took John back to the room and set him down. "Just...going to help you with your shoes, John, that's all," Greg said softly, easing John's shoes off with trembling hands. He stood up, ignoring Paul, and went to the television, turning it on and putting on a quiet documentary about the universe. The imagery was beautiful and the language soft and fluid, something easily slept to if needed. 

Paul lingered at the door, wanting to keep an eye on them for the next few minutes. Greg moved back to sit beside John, toeing off his shoes and lying down. He draped an arm over John's chest and pulled John's back to him, spooning with the man as the telly played softly. Greg whispered to him again. "I'm sorry. I should be stronger than this. I love you and we don't have to talk any more." 

John kept his head down and his mouth shut until they were in bed. Were it anyone else, the position would have alarmed John intensely, but seeing as it was Greg, he only pulled at his arm to weld them closer together. Keeping the man's wrist to his chest as if it were a life saving seatbelt, John listened to the man gently explain dark matter. 

_Just like a roundabout on a playground, the spinning solar systems feel a perceived outward pull called centrifugal force. The centripetal force, the one that keeps all the planets from flying off the edge of this massive spinning roundabout, is caused by gravity. The rotating galaxies, all spinning at intense speeds through space, are also held together with gravity. The only problem is that there is not enough mass to create the gravitational pull needed to keep the stars from flying off into space. There must be some other mass, invisible to us, that contributes to this gravitational pull. That's where the concept of dark matter comes in._

The speaker's voice was rich and deep, and John found himself calmed by it. He kept himself silent, though, frightened he might hurt Greg further.

Paul remained fixed in place as both men had seemingly forgotten he was there, and thus able to observe without intrusion. 

Greg closed his eyes and drew John closer to him when the man grabbed hold of his wrist. He'd been afraid that John would push him away now that the subject of abuse had come up, and was grately relieved that he did not. He held still for quite some time until reaching down into his pocket again and forcing himself to take a second pill. Paul had not told him he could do so, but he was going to come out of his skin otherwise. 

It was so blindingly unfair that John had managed to push himself only for Greg to fail him. He was gnawing on the insides of his lips and cheeks, his legs flexed tight and his breathing nearly mechanical in control. The program was soothing at least as he watched the backdrop of swirling cosmic gas, echoes from massive stars who had grown too swiftly to hold themselves together, burning brilliantly and then collapsing in on themselves with catastrophic damage. It was one of the most beautiful events in the cosmos, all surrounded in tragedy. There was something poetic there, but Greg hated it deeply and shifted his focus to the gnarled tangle of scar tissue that was John's arm. He drew his hand up so that he could trace his fingertips over the swirling patterns, hoping the light touch would feel alright on the fresh scars. He's enjoyed soft touch over the thick tissue that formed over his own gunshot wound. He hoped it would soothe John. 

"I am so proud of you though, John," he murmured into the silence, "You with that water...it's incredible to see you manage it. I'll do better, I will. I'm...I'll figure out how to be more like them, I'll figure it out."

John waited until the calm man narrating the video finished explaining how one's feet would be pulled more heavily by gravity than one's head if you did a pencil dive into a black hole. He smiled at the cartoon astronaut that stretched out before it entered the event horizon and responded to Greg. 

"Don't be sorry. Please. You've done nothing wrong and I love you." John was drowsy, but shifted uncomfortably. He'd had to pee for several hours now, but avoided saying anything about it. The light touches on his arm were comforting and he reminded himself not to be self conscious about the scars. _I am a mountain._

John hated how anxious Greg was. He hated how easily he cried now, how quickly he spiraled down into self loathing. John didn't hate Greg, no, no, no, he hated what he, himself, was doing to Greg. "Figure out how to be more like who?" John inquired and watched a beautiful digital demonstration of two galaxies colliding. 

Greg watched his fingertips on John's arm as a tear slid down the angle of his nose. His voice was steady though as he whispered softly. "Mycroft and Sherlock. I've got to do better. I will do better, John, I will."  
Paul watched with growing concern, keeping still just inside the door. Greg was seriously struggling with all of this, and it was stressing John terribly.

John let out a small whimper. Something felt very wrong with Greg. "I don't want Mycroft and Sherlock. I want you. Didn't I say that? I said that already." John squirmed and turned over so he was facing Greg, their chests touching isn't he bed. 

Greg smiled gently at John and nodded, keeping hold of the man. Paul decided it was time for him to step out, suddenly feeling intrusive as the men lay together. He quietly backed out of the room, situating himself in the open area just beyond the door in a group of plush chairs, diving into his notes. 

Greg closed his eyes as he trailed his fingers along John's hairline, keeping him close. "I know that I'm stressing you, I am sorry. I'll...it was a bit much last night and I'm just...I'm..this isn't your fault John, okay? Not your fault."  
John looked ashamed, but he knew better than to draw away. He stayed in the intimate position and wondered if he would ever be healed enough to have a real relationship, friendship or otherwise, with a person without damaging them. "I'm sorry that I panicked. I didn't mean to."

Greg began to trace the scar tissue on John's other arm. The man looked like a severe burn victim, layers and layers of damage that set off protective rage and deep, aching empathy for John at the same time. His fingers were gentle and delicate as he moved over splotches of burns, he curling tip of a whiplash, lacerations that had been stitched after Sherlock found him and those that obviously had been left to fester and heal on their own. 

"John, you are allowed to panic. I know you don't _like_ to panic. You did nothing wrong, and I am not disappointed in you at all. I love you and I'm incredibly proud of you. You are allowed to feel how you feel." The second sedative was evening him out, making him a bit heavier and slowing down his racing thoughts. It was easier to speak to John like this, without his mind getting in the way. 

John sad stills but self conscious about his scars, but Greg had already seen them all anyway, and it was futile to be vain. The affirmations helped and he kissed the part of Greg's chest that his face was nestled on. 

"When I panic, it hurts very badly. It's like falling into a whirlpool and drowning. I always end up sedated and it feels like spiraling down I to my own death. I like being like this, where I can think. But I'll still do things that hurt because you say they are the right thing, and because they help other people. Panicking hurts even more now because I know I'm hurting you. When I can feel it coming, when I can feel myself slipping, I always feel so guilty, because I know I'm about to hurt you, and anxious and fearful because I know I'm about to hurt myself." John muttered into Greg's chest and breathed deeply the comforting smell that he associated with his protection. 

Guilt whispered along the edges of the sedative Greg had taken, not quite breaking through, but there nonetheless. He curled his palm protectively around the bend of John's elbow, cradling the delicate bones in his hand. The second sedative made Greg both deeply present and incredibly distanced from the situation. He was able to feel for John, his chest squeezing in sympathy for John's terrible position, while mentally stepping back and observing nearly as a third party. 

"I wish I knew how to get a life raft to you when you panic. You won't be sedated anymore, I promised. I just don't know how to help. You forget who I am, you hide from me. That's okay, I understand and I know it's not _me_ specifically you are hiding from. It hurts to see you hurting, yes, but it's not...it's not personally painful. Most of the time. Yeah, most of the time. I know that panic hurts you, god I know, I...your face...and you shake and...all I want to do is save you and I can't. So when I push you to do things that make you panic, I feel..." he trailed off, trying to decide how he felt. He needed better words to help John understand. 

"I know that Moriarty told you that you'd hurt us. I know you are scared that he's right. But John," he eased back and carefully took John's face in his hands so that he could make eye contact, "You are not hurting anyone. All you've done since you got back is try to help. Hell, you were nearly out of your head with fear and you rendered aid to Sherlock, even when you were sure Sherlock had so horrifically hurt you, even when you couldn't say or hear his name. You _help_ us, John. The only one who hurts people is Moriarty, and we are getting past that. It's slow going, but hell, compared to where we all were when Sherlock first rescued you...we've made massive progress."  
John needed to be touched and held by another human being so badly. It soothed his raw panic and gave him a softer feeling of tranquility when Greg touched him softly. 

Human beings need to be touched. Infants, even if given proper nutrition and medical care, will die if not held and rocked and touched. It is a human need often ignored beyond the realm of sex. John had reverted to a childlike state and needed to be held and rocked in order to advance beyond it. 

John was limp in Greg's arms in a rare state of physical relaxation. "I want you to know that I'm not afraid of you when I panic. If I'm hiding from you, I don't...I usually just don't know it's you. It does hurt you personally when I cower. I can see it. If I pull away from you, even when I'm not panicking, you look devastated. It's not your fault, and it's not mine, but I wish I could help. I know I try to help, but I haven't done anything. Look at us. I've improved so much under your care and you've gone downhill. I refused to see Sherlock before when he scared me and it hurt him. I've been more of a burden than a blessing. It would have been easier on all of you if I just died under Moriarty's knife. I tried. I was supposed to cut my arm and I slit my wrist." 

He held up his right wrist and showed the horizontal scar. "But I wasn't strong enough. I got in trouble. God, I was even too scared of punishment to kill myself! He let me hold a gun and I was so convinced something would go wrong and I would end up being punished that I didn't shoot myself in the head when I could have."

Greg reached out and wrapped his hand around John's wrist as though he could stop him from ever having tried. " _No_ ," he said with intense conviction, shaking his head and holding tight to John's shoulder as well. "No, John god no. God no. I- listen, as much as all this hurts, Jesus for you to have died there thinking we all just _left you_ , to die there not having a kind touch or any relief-" Greg had to stop, dragging in a deep breath to keep himself from becoming overly emotional even over the haze of sedation. 

"John, this is hard, but I would never want it the other way. At least with you here, we all have a chance to heal. If you'd just died there, and we'd only gotten your body back..." he closed his eyes at the image of Sherlock, shock pale on the side of the road, drenched in blood, in an open panic- "He wouldn't have come back from it. I wouldn't have- no, god no, John. No. Don't think like that. We love you. I- no, please don't think for a second that I'd be better off it- no. John. No."

John rubbed at his wrist. He had been so _close_. "I thought someone was coming for me. The first day...I thought Sherlock would be back any second. I didn't plan on missing my tea. Then after a week, I thought surely he was coming. Then I thought, if he wasn't, the Yard would be getting somewhere. Maybe Sherlock would have called Mycroft. You'd have the entire city watching. But...Then I didn't want Sherlock to come, because I thought he was there, so I thought you and the Yard would be coming, but... Thats...Thats why it hurt when I learned nobody was coming. Not your fault, not any of your faults, but it just...It just hurt. It might have been harder for you if I had died, but maybe if I had managed to just get ahold of a knife in the early parts where I was still strong..." But no, Moriarty hadn't given him a knife until he was too weak to do damage, and didn't let him have a gun until he was too obedient to kill himself. 

Greg listened to John speaking, his heart squeezed up tight in sympathy for him. He could not imagine...he let his hand drop from John's shoulder to gently rub his back, feeling the dips and valleys of scar tissue under John's shirt. 

"I can't imagine what that was like, John. I can't. I'd likely think the same as you are now, that it would have been better to die. I wish I had words that could soothe it, I really do. You didn't die though, you lived, and now the point is to get you feeling good. Yeah, that's a tall order, I know, but it's possible. I'm so sorry you thought we abandoned you. I can't imagine." 

Guilt pushed at the haze of sedation, but he was able to stave it off for the moment. His mind was shouting self-depreciating abuse from somewhere quiet in the back, and he was blissfully able to ignore it for now. It would be the guilt, in the end, that did him in. He was just trying to hang on long enough to settle John with Sherlock, and then he could silence it. His fingers carried on trailing over John's back and he chewed at the back of his lip, just trying to validate John's feelings. 

"Yeah, it was sad." That was possibly the biggest understatement John had ever given breath to. He might as well have called the ocean a raindrop or Kilimanjaro a pebble. "But it's over. There's no point in wishing I had died. Believe me, I've wished that enough, and it does nothing to change my past." 

John was growing steadily more and more uncomfortable. He had to go to the bathroom, but truly did not want to get up. It went beyond laziness, though. There were several things about it he found rather perturbing. 

"But it's over now, isn't it? No more cutting. No more burning. God, he was so _kind_. It was awful." 

Greg nodded, "It is over. It is." He was swiftly losing the battle against overwhelming guilt, the surge of it nearly taking him down. He had no idea how he was going to manage pressing through this when he was so heavily culpable it felt as though he'd personally put John under the whip. John shifted and was behaving otherwise uncomfortably. Greg let him go, easing back. 

"I'm sorry, that was probably too close, you don't have to lie with me like this." His pulse kicked up and he drew his hands away, breaking contact least he frighten John again. 

"No," John insisted and could feel the cold in all the places they had been touching. The lack of body heat was immediately tangible and he followed Greg backwards so he could rest in the same spot on his chest as before.

"It's not too close. I like this. This is comfortable, I swear." He picked up Greg's arm and pulled them around him himself. "You don't make me uncomfortable."

Greg wrapped him back up tentatively. "You look uncomfortable. Are you in pain, or...I don't want to scare you," he whispered, trying to get to the bottom of what was at play. John was not behaving as he usually did and it was unnervingly similar to all the other times the man had sworn he was alright, only to drop hard into panic. 

"Can..can I get you something or.."

"No...'s fine. Just.." John was growing embarrassed now. _I am a fully grown man! I can go to the damn lav!_ John shook his head. He could ignore it. He didn't want to untie his pants or go in the bathroom where the shower was. 

"I'm fine. I'm not in pain and you aren't scaring me."  
Greg eased back, looking at John in question. He knew for sure now that something was actively wrong and John was trying to hide it from him. "Just what, John?" 

"Nothing. I'm fine. Lets watch a movie, alright? I don't want to get out of bed." He grabbed a small fistful of Greg's shirt and held on.

Greg closed his hand over John's at his shirt and stared at him for a few moments. "John, tell me what's wrong," he whispered, trying to get him to open up. Something was bothering him, Greg was sure.

"Nothing. I've just got to use the lav is all. Nothing important. It can wait. Lets put on a movie. We can rewind this one. I like space. The part about dark energy was interesting." He looked around for the remote then, deflecting quite hard. 

Greg nodded, finally understanding. "We can watch a movie, but let's get you settled first. You're already uncomfortable. I can get this set back up while you handle that, and then we can just rest here and watch the movie." 

John pouted just a bit. "Fine. But can we watch a bit more first?" He was, for the most part, comfortable with Greg holding him and alway hated moving from a position of safety.

Greg pulled John closer to his chest and hugged him tight for a moment, easing off but keeping his arms around John while he spoke. "You've not been in a lav for a long time, have you? It's...it's okay, John, you'll be safe. I can step out if you'd like, or I can go in with you, whatever will help." 

Again the roaring guilt washed up over him. He'd dragged John in there and forced him into a shower, likely adding to the tension. 

John was hesitant. He didn't want to insult Greg by asking him not to accompany him, but he also didn't want to hurt him by panicking. 

"I...I think some privacy would be best," John stated as gently as he could. That was a normal thing, wasn't it? Normal blokes didn't bring their friends with them into the lav. 

Greg nodded straight away, "Yeah John, that's completely fine. Do you want me to go wait out in the hallway, or just here?"

He sat up, running a hand over his head and stretching. "Whatever you need, John, it's fine."

John got up and looked at the lav door. Why did they have to keep something as terrifying as a shower near something as necessary as a toilet? "You can wait here. I won't be long."

Greg nodded and went about the task of starting the movie over, while arranging the bed more comfortably. He was moving sluggishly, the second sedative doing its job. He settled on the foot of the bed and waited for John, who went into the bathroom as hesitantly as one would walk into a cage of rabid dogs. The shower loomed ominously beside him and he took deep breaths. It was off. No water. Nobody to hurt him. John took care of his issue and scanned the room once more. _Thank God_ there was hand sanitizer and he didn't need to turn on the tap.

Greg watched John leave and closed his eyes, raking a hand through his hair again. It was progress, John hadn't dared walk into the lav, ever. It was good to see him progressing, even though it was hard to see the level of difficulty John was facing at such a mundane task. He paused the film and just let himself wait, ears attuned for the man in case he needed help. 

The door finally opened, pulling Greg from his thoughts as he watched John came out of the lav and shut the door before scampering back to the bed and diving under the covers with Greg. He was silent and pale. Each fluid line of scarring put to his flesh by boiling water was singing phantom pain along his nerves, frightening him, though he was battling to overcome the fear. 

“I’m...I’m okay.” 

Greg stayed just as he was, not yet touching John, and put on the movie. The narrator's voice wrapped around them and he moved close enough to John that it would be simple for him to reach out and touch Greg. 

"I'm right here, I don't want to push you. You are okay, everything is fine," he whispered gently. 

"See, that's the thing," John’s soft voice, twisted with sadness, "you have to push me or I'll never get anything done. It hurts you. I know." John sat up then and turned to the side a bit. 

"Could I ask you for something? Something difficult?"

Greg looked at John and reached out for him, covering John’s hand with his own. "Yeah John, you can ask me for anything. I just meant that I- I didn't want to touch you if you weren't ready."

John turned so he had his face pressed down into the mattress and one ear against Greg. "I need you to help me with the water and with speaking clearly. I need that. But more than that I need it to seem like it is a good thing that we are doing it. Maybe...I don't know. I need a goal. What would make you happy? For me to drink without crying? Without cowering? Give me something to work for."

Greg frowned, not quite understanding. "I thought that's what we were already doing, John. I thought...I mean the water is a good thing, yeah? The less tubes you have in you, the better you feel. I- does it not seem good that we are doing it?" 

Greg's heart sank, he'd been trying so hard already to do exactly what John was asking. He'd given him a goal of getting the feeding tube out, and he'd tried to keep things as normal as possible surrounding the water. "I mean...yeah for you to drink water like you sleep or talk, just...normal again...that was the goal. I'm not sure what-" he dragged a hand over his mouth, feeling like a complete failure. He cleared his throat, doing his best to sound steady and even. 

"I'm trying to understand what it is you want me to do." 

"I need an _end_." John's shoulders sagged and he looked up at Greg with pure exhaustion on his face. It had been months of torture with Moriarty, then several weeks of terror back at the hospital, then months of stress. Now, he was a bit calmer, and his quality of life had improved, but life was still exhausting.  
"I need an end goal. Getting the tube out is just...Things will still be hard. I need to know when things will be easy." He pointed up at the calendar. "Lets write things. Like; 'can drink entire glass without cowering' or 'finishes cup of applesauce'. I need to make progress so I can be done with this." 

John had decided that he was going to take charge of this. He was damn tired of it and it obviously wouldn't go away by ignoring it. 

Greg watched him, taking in how worn out John was before looking over to the calendar to cover the fact that he couldn't bear to look at John’s expression any longer. He was hardly breathing as John spoke. How the _hell_ l were they supposed to set goals like that, and what was going to happen if John didn't meet them? 

_Am I calm now?_

Greg closed his eyes and nodded, suddenly wanting to just go to sleep and escape the pressure for a few hours. 

"Yeah John, okay. An...an end. I...have no idea when it will be easy again...maybe Paul would be better for this.I don't know what to do, or how long to set each of these out for or-" he dropped his eyes to John's again before looking back at the calendar. 

"I mean..you got all that water down today. That...yeah that was good and maybe tomorrow..." he trailed off, too afraid to make projections that would be wrong, too short or too long out, causing John to force Greg to make good on his promise. He shivered and swallowed against the bile rising in his throat. Christ but he had no idea what he was doing. 

"I...I don't know how long...I mean, you...manage to do things faster than I would expect but I don't want you to feel like...I wish I could tell you. I...I know things are still really bad," and wasn't that the truth. All these months and Greg had hardly put a dent in it. Sherlock had helped John more in ten minutes than Greg had in ten weeks. "I'm sorry." 

John got up and walked to the wall. He pulled the calendar down and found it attached with the soft, moldable adhesive used in kindergartens to keep the kids away from tacks. 

"I need something to write with. I'll write the goals myself so that you don't feel like you're pushing me too hard." John put the calendar on the bed and laid down in front of it. 

"How long did it take me to drink the 16oz from the time we started with the ice chips?"

Greg dragged a hand over his mouth and spoke as he looked down at the floor. "You were eating ice chips, drinking small bits of liquids, and eating whole cups of applesauce at the hospital before the raid. We've been back here what? Eight weeks? And you'd made progress before...before I pulled you into the shower," god how he just wanted to lie down and go to sleep. He dug the nail of his pointer into the side of his thumb and pressed down hard. 

"So it's not really a fair way to gauge. I made it worse. In hospital before then, it took about a week." 

"Alright." John stared at the calendar. "Then it should take about...two weeks? Two weeks before I can drink water without it hurting that bad? Maybe I'll just..." John slowly got up and went to the door. He stuck his head out and stared at one of the guards for a moment before speaking. 

"Can I have something to write with?" 

Paul looked up at the unexpected sound of John's voice, watching as a guard handed over a ball point pen with a faint smile. That was odd. John didn't seem particularly distressed. In fact, he sounded quite lucid, determined even. He chose to keep his seat, though his curiosity was piqued. 

Greg nodded. "That...yeah. John, with this whole thing, I don't know how much you want me to push you. I already...messed up with-" _everything_ , "this and I know it's hard for you to be around me in particular when you are working with water and-" he stopped, forcing himself to slow down. 

"I'll do whatever you want. I don't know what you want, though." 

John kicked his feet behind him as he flopped on his stomach and chewed on the back of the pen, as was his habit. His head was propped up on one hand and he tracked the days with his eyes. It was a youthful position, but not infantile, and he was rather calm. 

John was determined to get this over with. He wanted it gone. Done. Finished. And since death wasn't an option, he was going full speed ahead at his horizon.

"I've got to do it every day. I've got to drink." He marked the days with the reminder. "But maybe not a whole glass each day. Maybe we can start like this..." 

His hand was clumsy with the pen and his writing terrible, but he didn't mind. That wasn't the issue right now. The next day was marked with half, then the next with three quarters, then back to half. 

"But I can't have so little for long, and I'll get better at this..." He marked the next with a one, then another for the next day, until he reached Sunday.

"And on Sundays I'll get to choose. I can not have it if I don't want to, and since it is planned, I won't be disappointing you." 

Greg shut himself up as John ignored him and dove into his task. At least he was focused on something, though the amount of water he was going to take in would still require that Greg give him fluids. It was a start though, and a far cry from two weeks ago. He nervously picked at the side of his thumb, staring down at his socked feet, just wanting to melt into the walls.

John continued on until he was at three glasses of water in one day. "Do you think I can do that?" If he looked at it on it's own, it appeared impossible. But when he saw that the day before had been two and a half,, then he could easily see it. He'd done one today, what was half cup difference? Proportionally, the difference between two and a half and three was even smaller than currently going up by half a glass. 

"I think I can." John scrambled up onto his feet and went to the door again. He handed the man back his pen and briefly held the calendar up for Paul to see. 

"We're planning things."

Paul carefully kept the surprise off his face as he looked up, easily seeing the overly large handwriting on the calendar. He stood and walked forward, keeping at arm's distance from the entrance of John's room. 

"Planning things?" He said warmly, flicking his eyes into the room and noting that Greg was simply sitting there, perfectly still, staring off into space. He looked back to John. 

"Plans are wonderful, can you tell me what you're up to?"

John wanted to go back to Greg, but Paul seemed to be interested, and he held up the calendar once more. "I'll start with half a glass tomorrow, then slowly more, until I'm at three cups. I think that will make Greg happy. But I get Sundays off. Those are mine. That way he won't get disappointed and I can take a break if I need to."

Paul smiled broadly at John, nodding enthusiastically at the idea. "That's brilliant, John! Wonderful work. It is good to have a mapped out plan." 

It was fantastic progress. Greg had flinched when John mentioned his disappointment, but otherwise did not move. Paul said nothing of it. 

"Did you think of this on your own, John? It's really a wonderful idea, and here you've set your own goals so they are _yours_. The progress belongs to you, and is in your control. It's fantastic." 

John was beaming. The word _control_ was particularly comforting to him. Here was something he could control. It was his. It wasn't being done to him, he was willingly charging into it to conquer it. He tried to express this to Paul, but couldn't quite articulate it. 

"Now, I'm doing the thing...and it's not being done to me and I can tell when, but now I have to so I can't back out...But since _I_ made this, it's not being done to me and it's not mean and it won't stress Greg."

Paul continued honestly smiling at John. It was just remarkable to see him so motivated, finally empowered. All it had taken was a calendar. He kept John's focus on him as he saw Greg drag a shaking hand across his eyes, obviously emotional, giving the man time to get himself together. Greg cleared his throat and stood up, walking to the lav quietly as Paul engaged John. 

"That's right, it's you taking it back for yourself. That is absolutely wonderful. Now, you've still got room on those days to write a little plan for yourself. Do you have any ideas on what would help you when you start to panic? I can help you with this, if you'd like." 

Greg put the lid of the toilet down and seated himself there, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, face in his hands. He could hardly make himself draw in a full breath. He dragged his hands along the sides of his face and wrapped them around the back of his neck, digging his nails in and gritting his teeth. Guilt soaked over his bones like thick molasses. It hurt down in the pulp of his teeth and the marrow of his bones, setting his ears ringing. The points of pain at his nape eased the pressure in his chest, giving him a moment of relief. He was forcing John to consider _him_ despite his best efforts, and it was so wildly unfair to John he could hardly stand it. He wanted to wash his face, but John was talking about water and Greg had held him under the spray and he could not risk-

He folded over entirely, pillowing his arms on his knees and his head in the crook of his elbow, trying to breathe through it, wildly glad that Paul was there. 

John didn't like it when Greg left, but it was only to the lav, and he could handle that. "I don't know...I did good before, I think. I had a whole glass of water. It was hard, but I did it. Greg helped. Greg _always_ helps. He talks to me and keeps me calm...but..." John looked back over his shoulder to make sure Greg had not returned. 

"But he's hurting so much. I'm stuck. I don't want to be drinking the water, but he wants me to, so..." John slowly stepped fully into the hallway and closed the door. It was frightening to do, but he needed to tell someone about this. 

"But he gets sad when I panic about water. So I made this so I can drink water _and not panic_. Then he will be happy. I'm sure of it." John held the calendar to his chest as if it were the most important document in the entire world. 

"Once I can drink the water and not panic, I won't be hurting him anymore."

Paul nodded in understanding, matching John's tone as he responded. "I'm sure that it will help, yes. If you can look and see how much you've told yourself to drink, perhaps it won't be so frightening. I understand that it triggers voices in your head. Greg said you were able to tell them off today. That's very good progress." 

"Yes, the voices...those...it's Moriarty, mostly. He was always speaking, always reassuring. It was..." John didn't wish to discuss the impact of Moriarty's soft tones on his mind at the moment. "Greg helped me with them. He helped and I was able to drink the water." 

John still referred to it as a concrete identify. _The_ water. There weren't different types of water. It was all one thing. To John, it would have been no different if the boiling water that had been splashed on his skin had been gathered up and put in a glass. It was all the same. The water. 

Greg got himself up and pressed his face to a towel, breathing slow and deep for a few moments, savoring the darkness and the quiet in that huddled position. He then put himself back into posture and nodded, dragging in a deep breath and forcing himself to move back into the room. 

John wasn't on the bed. He wasn't in his chair. Greg suddenly turned to the window and scanned the courtyard for him. 

Nothing. 

The icy wash of panic slid down his spine as his mind raced. He had a pen, he had a pen and Greg thought he'd been with Paul and _where the hell is John?_ He called out for him sharply as he wrenched the door open, heart slamming against his ribs. He stopped just short of crashing into the man, instantly feeling the fool for his reaction. 

Paul reached out and grabbed hold of Greg's bicep, just past John's arm, trying to steady the pale man. 

"Easy, Greg, he's just been here with me." 

John was startled at Greg’s panic. 

"Is something wrong?" He asked and dropped the calendar to the ground. He reached for Greg and pulled him into a tight embrace. 

"I'm sorry I left, I was just telling Paul about our calendar. 

Greg pulled John into his arms and tipped his face down to John's shoulder, breathing deep and fast as he tried to calm his racing heart. 

Paul let go when he was sure Greg would keep his feet, crouching down and gathering up the calendar. He held on to it while Greg collected himself. 

"It's fine," Greg whispered a moment later, shaking his head, "it's...it's fine I just...you never leave willingly and I-" he shivered and pulled John tighter. He'd left the man alone with a pen, just assuming Paul would watch him, and he'd been sure in those few seconds that his weakness that pulled him into the lav had cost John his life. 

"I'm sorry, you...you talk to Paul. That's a good...thing for you to do," he said softly as he let John go, chewing hard on his own lip. 

John could see the tension written on his face and looked at him nervously. "What's wrong? I'm sorry, I didn't mean to scare you. I left and I should have said something." 

He felt like a child explaining to a worried mother why he hadn't come home before dark. 

"I promise I won't leave without telling you. I just wanted to show Paul. I just wanted to...to show him how good we're doing." Their progress was jointed, Greg and John's, and he was starting to see that. John pulled Greg back into his arms and held on. 

"It's okay. I just stepped out for a moment. That's a good thing, isn't it? I'm...I'm walking and stuff. I'm talking to people. I gave him his pen back...." John's resolve that this had been a good idea was starting to fade away and he visibly shrank. "I...I won't do it again. I swear."

Greg shook his head, hands trembling in the wake of this latest misstep. Why the fuck had he reacted like that? 

"No, John no, it's very good. You don't have to tell me where you are going, you can move about without telling me, you're a free, grown man. I just am being totally ridiculous, it's great that you were talking to Paul."

He squeezed John and stepped back, moving into the room. "I'm...going to lie down. Please take your time, I'll just be in here. It's really, really good what you did, I'm...absurd, you did well, John."

John was shaken by Greg's instability. The man was supposed to be his rock, and He was worried. "Okay, Greg. You go lie down. I'll be here. You just...you don't worry. I'll be fine." 

John took his calendar back and gave a small nod and a muttered thanks as Greg left, turning to speak to Paul. 

"Greg...Greg is hurting. He is hurting very badly. You are his friend. He needs help. He is always apologizing, always sad when he thinks he hurt me. I...If I drink, he is sad because I panic. If I don't, he's even more sad. I can't win.”

Paul spoke softly to John. "Next time you go talk to Sherlock, I'll have a word with Greg. He's going to be okay, John, he's just stressed. The calendar will help, you've come up with a very good idea." 

Greg went back to the bed and laid down on his side, drawing up his knees and wrapping his arms around his gut. He needed a break, but there was no end in sight, no light at the end of the tunnel, and everything he did just dragged John backwards. He closed his eyes and gripped his sides tight, trying to turn his mind off. 

John turned back to the doorway, but paused, needing to address a few things further. "Paul, I'm feeling better now. I'm starting to think. But it hurts. Everything hurts. This...I'm not going to ever go back to normal. But I need to be able to keep Greg happy. I need that. Tell me...Just tell me what I should be doing. Tell me how to help him."

Paul shook his head. "You will find a new normal, and it won't hurt. You are better, but you are not healed. As for Greg, I'm not sure. I think most of this is just in his own head, John. He just needs you, really. He just needs you. He'll be alright, John. Just...I think he's feeling a great deal of guilt and he's working through it." 

"I'm trying to help him," John spoke quietly, "but I don't know how. Tell me things I can do. Like a list. I spend half my life in his arms to begin with, so there’s not much more I can do in that area. I say nice things...I try, but I need more."

Paul nodded his understanding. "I'll work on it John, you just...stay with him. Keep in mind that he holds himself personally responsible for much of what you are going through. Some of this is independent of what's happening with you, and just issues from the rest of his life that are manifesting here. He is much, much worse when he's not allowed to be with you. You help him just by letting him near you." 

John nodded and held his calendar to his chest. "Alright. Thanks."

His bare feet made soft patting sounds on the thick carpet as he walked over to the bed and looked at Greg. Perhaps, just like John, Greg needed to feel useful. "I've done a lot today," John began and tried not to sound too pathetic. 

"Could...Could you just hold me?"


	8. Down to Sleep

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well...this update was a long, long time coming. I'm sorry it took so long to get it to you, life happened. This is not an abandoned work. 
> 
> This is, however, a completely raw and unedited version save for typos. The story is phenomenally long, and we simply do not have time to edit it. Dem and I both set out to write this nearly day-by-day, and so that is what we have to offer you. We appreciate you guys, and again, so sorry for the long delay.

Greg immediately opened his arms to John. 

"You've done so amazingly well today," he whispered, his voice rough and clearly strained with emotion. 

"I should not have panicked like that, or...well hell, any of the things I've done today. I got the movie ready like you wanted," he added, completely unable to keep his lower lip steady, eyes closed against the sting of tears that he was _not_ going to entertain.

John crawled into Greg's arms and breathed a sigh of relief. 

"You're stressed. You're going to be alright. Listen..." 

John pulled Greg's head down and kissed his forehead. He stayed that way, eyes closed in concentration, until he felt Greg understood. 

"I don't like to picture myself alive in several years, but if I am alive, if I do picture it, it's with you. It's always with you. I need you more than you know, and if you..If you make a mistake, I don't care. I love you. Love means that I forgive you."

Greg pulled John back into his arms and held him tight, tucking his face down to John's shoulder. 

"Twenty-one days," he breathed, "twenty-one days and twelve hours I lost you for the water. Twenty-one days. I don't care fuckall about what happened to me then, I put you through hell for twenty-one days over a five minute mistake. And then you thought I- you thought-" he shivered and kept a tight hold of John, "I did so much damage you thought I'd hold...hold you down..." his stomach twisted on him and he was abruptly very close to sicking up. 

"I am the person who's hurt you the worst since you've come back. I can't imagine why you want to be here with me. Sherlock is back and he loves you...and I...I want to help but I _don't." He vocalized his own inner demons, putting his deepest fears on the table. He'd destroyed his own family,_ and now he was doing so to John, and it was more than he could take. He still kept an iron grip on John, sure he was about to wrench away at any moment. 

John held Greg as tightly as he could. "Yes, I thought you held me down for Paul to…” he trailed off in distress. “But I wasn't thinking clearly. You hold yourself to it. I didn't think it was you...really...It was just my mind. My mind was being awful. It's not my fault, and it's not yours. The water...that was a mistake and it hurt. But mistakes happen and that's okay." 

John tilted his head to the side when Greg brought up Sherlock being back once again. 

"I don't blame you. I really don't blame you. I don't want to stay with Sherlock right now. I want to stay with you. I'll stay with him to help him, but I'll stay with you to help myself. You didn't do damage. You didn't do damage to make me think you had held me down. That was my own damage. That was my mind remembering what had happened and applying it to the present. That was _not your fault, Greg._ You are not the one who's hurt me the worst. That doctor who ripped at my stitches hurt me the worst. When Moriarty set people to attack the hospital, I was frightened more. When Moriarty came himself and we had to run...that was awful. You've helped me the most. There is nobody else to help me. I need you to stay with me. Will you promise me that? Promise me you'll stay with me no matter what I do to repel you?" 

Greg nearly bit through his lip. He'd never be able to endure another banishment. Hell, just the week last he'd nearly walked out the door to put a bullet in his brain. The options were cloying and   
he finally understood John's begging to die. He finally understood. He had no chance of properly helping John, a much higher chance of seriously damaging him, and here John wanted promises,   
just as Greg had wanted from him, that he stay no matter. 

Well, perhaps that wasn't quite true. Greg had promised to send John off quietly if it became too much, if he asked while sane. That hardly mattered. John was the one who'd been so horrifically  
and unspeakably tortured. 

"I said I would stay until you didn't want me anymore. I meant it," he managed, struggling hard with himself. 

John could see Greg's mental struggle and sat up. He was as far from panic as he had been in a long while, though not quite as comprehending of the situation as before. 

"Greg, tell me what is wrong." It sounded like much more of a command than he had intended and he amended it quickly. "I mean, you sound so sad. I'm not panicking. I'm not hurting. I'm doing everything that I can to help you. Tell me what's wrong. What's going on? Why are you so...anxious"

Greg kept one hand wrapped in the material of John's trousers, the other crossed over his chest. He was quiet for a moment before giving a self-depreciating laugh, no mirth in the sound at all. 

"I- I'm screwing up so terribly that _you_ are having to help me. You endured...I mean you said it yourself, I've not been...nothing has happened to me. I don't have a reason to-" he cracked another pained laugh and scrubbed his hand over his face. 

"I keep messing up, and one day you aren't going to forgive or move past it. One day you might look me in the eye and ask me to- I mean you might- each mistake means I'm going to hear you-" he shook his head and held his breath. It took a moment to get his composure. "I break everything I touch. Everything. _Everyone._ I- I keep hurting you and I hurt Sherlock and Mycroft, my kids, my… _her_...I can't even-" 

He bit off the words, sinking down into his own loathing, completely unable to see the light. 

"When..when I try to leave it's always to save you." 

John's heart, which was a taped together, stapled mess of scar tissue, tore within his chest once more. It didn't shatter. No, something must first be whole to be shattered. A pile of crushed glass can not be shattered, only broken further. John realized something very strange suddenly. He no longer needed help if he were going to die. He could get his own medication. He knew where the bottle was. He could pretend to be asleep and wait for Greg to doze off then drift away on an overdose of anxiety medication and sedatives. If they were kept out of his reach, outside the door or given in small amounts, he could hoard them in the pillowcase until he had enough. John didn't plan on doing it, but it was a much needed safety net. 

"Greg, I don't think I'm going to ask you to let me go." 

It was a very honest statement, and it hurt him to say. 

"I think I'm going to have to stay. Sherlock needs me, and you need me. You two..." Greg was clearly falling apart, and Sherlock, the one people had called a machine for his stoic nature, had openly wept at the idea of losing him.   
"You two need me, and I don't think I can be selfish enough to let myself go. I think...I might as well make the best of this, because I might be around for longer than I planned. You don't break everything you touch. You've helped me so much. I'd probably be still strapped down if you weren't here. It's been so long since they used the restraints on me, and that's because of you."

Greg nodded, not quite looking at John, not particularly believing him. 

"I keep making today worse. We should...y-you wanted to watch the telly and rest. Maybe we should just...I'm sorry. I have made you feel trapped and I've been selfish and I-" Greg was losing his focus. Sherlock was dying and John hated being here and he could not see an end that didn't leave them miserable. He'd lost sight of the optimism he'd held at the start, the hope of seeing John smiling and living properly beat down by every pained panic attack, each terrified withdraw from him. He dragged in a shuddering breath and covered his eyes, trying to hide his disgraceful display.

"I had no r-right to ask you to stay with me. I just...I was such a coward. I was such a coward and I dragged you through- you went from Moriarty to me and Christ I don't think I'll ever forgive myself for-" he hissed and shook his head. "I'm sorry, we..we can watch the movie, maybe get some rest. I'm sorry." 

"You really don't see, do you?" John whispered and shook his head. He laid down on his side and pulled Greg to lie across from him under the covers. He wanted to see Greg's face, and thus didn't curl against his chest. Instead he dipped his forehead to rest against Greg's and wrapped his arms around his neck. 

"You're depressed. You're hurting from your divorce and from when I pulled away from you. You feel inadequate. But you are a human being! You're allowed mistakes! I forgave you as soon as I was lucid enough to do so! I don't know what I can do to make you see how much I love you and how much I need you. If you come up with something, tell me. Until then, just remember that I love you." 

John tilted forward and brushed his lips softly against Greg's cheek sweetly. 

"And that I am grateful to you for helping me so much. You're a great man, Greg."

Greg stared at John, settling his fist in the material of John's shirt, right where it met the mattress. He was not pulling at the fabric, he just needed...something to hold on to that wasn't going to upset John. It was incredibly hard not to focus on those gut-wrenching days locked out in the hall, listening to John screaming or crying, empathizing with Sherlock's agony at John's fear of him. Only, unlike Sherlock, Greg had given John a reason to fear him. He heard what John was saying to him, but the follow-up of John's instantaneous acceptance that Greg had held him down, despite John's begging, for him to be violently assaulted...John knew it was Greg's hands, and Greg's voice. He'd been lucid enough to know _who_ had him, and there wasn't even a moment of hesitation, a moment of doubt. Nothing to give him pause in his assumptions. John had been taught through his captivity that everyone would hurt him, and Greg had failed to so much as put a dent in that idea. It was Greg's failing, not John's, but oh god did he feel it. 

John's words were all true, right up until he started talking about...

_Oh, god. Oh, god, oh god, oh god_ , Greg's mind began to race and he nearly scrambled back out of the bed, keeping still for John's benefit, _oh god he's...it's like Stockholm...he'd- oh god._

Greg nearly chewed through his lip, crunching down with such force that he could hear the split of the delicate membranes in his mouth as he clamped his teeth sharply down over the inside of his cheek. He tried to give John a faint smile before he closed his eyes, trying to center in an effort not to vomit. Christ what had he done? 

"Thank you, John," he managed in an effort to calm him. 

John could sense that something was wrong. The air had lost it's cozy, comfortable quality. He felt that there was something between Greg and he, something in Greg's mind that was forcing him to withdraw, but he couldn't tell what. John liked being at eye level with Greg, and where it fell short in comfort compared to being pressed against his chest, it made up for in closeness. John wanted to study Greg, to see his eyes and his thoughts, but more than anything he wanted to help. 

"I...Greg, you aren't failing. Please, I love you. I love you! Nothing you've ever done had ever hurt me too much. I always forgive you. I will always forgive you!" John realized then that the statement was completely true. No matter what Greg did, John would forgive him.

He shuddered then. What if Greg began to really hurt him? What if he grew abusive? Would he still come crawling back?

The answer was a resounding yes, and John shuddered. Greg would _never_ become abusive. Never, ever. Look how upset he was for having accidentally hurt him!

"Please, love." John nuzzled under Greg's chin and pressed his face against his neck. "Please, try and see how wonderful you are. You've helped me so much."

None of this was right, and Greg felt it with the slow, icy-fire slide of acid down his spine. John had attached himself out of sheer desperation to the first person outside of Sherlock who'd shown him kindness. 

_I won't scream. I'll be still! Please don't leave!_

His stomach rolled and then bucked on him, and had it not been for its emptiness he'd have tossed up all over John then and there. Oh god what had he _done_? 

Greg took a moment to breathe against the panic as his ears began to ring and he nearly blacked out. John would have laid on his back and made an effort to be still and quiet while Greg and Paul did as they liked and Jesus fucking _Christ_ how had he let this happen? He'd taken advantage of a severely abused man, putting his hope into fixing John while John just wanted someone to care for him and fuck fuck _fuck_ what a _monster_ he truly was. 

What was worse, was how much he loved John this close. Hell, how much he loved John and for a formerly straight and narrow bloke that was all a bit much. Only John was another straight bloke who loved Sherlock and Sherlock an asexual who loved John and all of Seven Hells could not _touch this_. Dante himself would have balked. 

He had to leave. Not walk out, but snuff it, and Paul and Mycroft would ensure John would keep here and Sherlock would need John and it would be a short matter of time before John attached to Sherlock like this and- but he had _kids_ and he had...he needed...Greg whimpered and held John to him and pinched his eyes closed. 

"I'm not the only man here who- I mean I- you are- Christ John I-" he shuddered and held John to him, "I'm sorry, god I'm _so sorry_. I don't have...have enough training or...I just...I honestly love you and I'd never...I'd never...god I'd-" he dragged a trembling hand across his forehead, "you are my best mate and you've always been there for me and I- you- god I just wanted to help and...John oh god, I didn't mean- I didn't mean-" he shook his head and bit down again at the bleeding line in his mouth he'd opened up. 

"I swear I just wanted to help you! I didn't want to train you or make you think a certain way or- god I just wanted- oh my god what did I do to you? I didn't mean to do any of this to you I-" he cut off as his mouth started to water, dizzy with the new reality of what he'd inadvertently done to John. "You're my b-best mate and I- god I'm sorry."

John let out a low whine. This was starting to become all too much. He didn't understand Greg's pain. Not really. He only knew that he felt guilty and upset, though he couldn't fathom why. Tears sprung to his eyes and he snaked his arms around Greg's middle to pull him even closer. His legs tangled up with Greg's as if assuring that he wouldn't suddenly try and run away.

"I know you love me," John exclaimed and began to whimper. Whatever was happening, he didn't like it. "I know you never tried to hurt me. I know that. I know. Please, I...I don't know what I'm doing wrong!" 

Each and every time Moriarty had beat John it had been for something he had done. Never once did the man hit him when he had been completely compliant. That's not to say that he didn't beat him whenever he damn well pleased, it's only to state that he always made it appear to be John's fault. He would make up ridiculous reasons to punish John, or make requests John simply couldn't comply to, in excuse to beat him and add more training. In result, John was now very afraid to fail, especially the one he subconsciously deemed his 'director'. 

"I'm sorry!" John shouted and began to tremble. "I don't...I'm trying! I made a calendar! I drank a whole glass! I've not screamed in days!! It's...I'm trying! I can't...oh, god...oh, god..." John hated not being able to please Greg. If he couldn't please the person in control, he would be beaten. Now, logically, John was well aware that he would not be beaten by Greg. But he was also logically aware that water wouldn't hurt him, and that knowledge did nothing to help him drink. 

John had been programmed so strongly that not pleasing the one in charge brought pain, that even when the one in charge was Greg, a benevolent guardian and friend, panic still boiled within him. 

"You don't need to be sorry! I love you! Please, please let me try again. Tell me what you want. Just tell me what you want!" John was no longer thinking clearly. There was an intense difference between being calm, and being lucid. John wasn't screaming in fear, but he had very little grasp of what was actually happening. 

Greg closed his eyes and went very still as John began to panic. It was indescribably painful, each pathetic plea shredding across him and tearing him open from the inside. He'd fully tipped John into panic and the sound of that deep, visceral fear was horrific. He held tight to John, tears now freely rolling down his cheeks as he ran his hand down John's back. 

"You've d-done fine," he forced himself to say as calmly as he could manage, "John you are safe. Please hear me, John, you are safe. I love you. Please. I love you. You are s-safe," he repeated, nearly sobbing in his failure. 

"Please we can just watch...please let's just watch the movie and sleep. Please. I am sorry, I- too much I've asked too much and- please let's...oh, John, it's okay. Please don't be scared. You're safe. I swear you're safe. I'm so sorry, please I won't hurt you. John, I won't hurt you." 

How could this be good for John? How could he possibly be helping? His mind wandered to the pills in his pocket and he wondered if all of them would stop his heart. 

"John, please hear me. I won't hurt you." 

John liked hearing that he wouldn't be hurt, but he fear of punishment for failure had deep roots and he let out a choked, whimpering sob. John clung desperately to Greg as if afraid someone would come rip them apart. His legs shook and his body buzzed in preparation for pain.

Watch the movie and sleep. Finally, something he could do. John nodded and wiped tears out of his eyes onto Greg's shirt and twisted a bit so he could see the screen. "Okay...I-I can do that. I-I'll do better tomorrow. Please...please, I love you. I love you. I need you to stay with me. I know you're hurting, and you...I just...please don't leave me. I don't want to be alone."

Greg could hardly breathe. He held on to John, keeping his eyes pinched shut, completely unable to speak. He'd frightened John again and god it was going to be such a sweet, blissful release to swallow the pills and drift off into nothing. John would decidedly not be alone. He only attached to Greg since Greg was the one there. It had nothing to do with Greg personally. He was a warm, consistent body that did not (often) hurt John and that was the end of it. Had it been Sherlock, or Molly, or anyone else he'd be just as desperate to keep him. John's affections had nothing to do with him personally. 

The narrator on the film carried on in soft, easy tones, speaking of the stretches of Dark Matter and the random collisions that allowed it to exist at all, chaos that resulted in beauty, and oh how Greg wished that had been the outcome here. His lungs burned for want of more air than he was allowing and he savored the pain as penance. He said a silent prayer to a god he was sure did not exist, begging forgiveness for all that he'd managed to do. He'd wanted to save John, that was it. Well, John and Sherlock, and along the way he'd turned into an abuser and he had no idea on earth how that had come to be. All the while he held John in trembling arms, breathing him in and wishing to hell that he'd had Sherlock run with the man while he'd taken the bullets. 

John began to cry. Not loudly out of fear, or openly for sympathy. John cried to himself, his breath hitching softly and tears rolling down his face as he obediently watched the documentary. He was so confused and manipulated by Moriarty, even in this. He was to make his leader, the one who dictated what happened in his life, as happy as he could, and right now he was failing terribly. "I'm sorry," he whispered and allowed himself one heartbroken sob. He wanted help. He wanted someone who he could make happy. Ideally, he wanted Greg to be smiling and pleased. He wanted safety. His mother. His sister. Where was she? That one teacher who had always been nice to him. John's mind filed through people from his childhood who had comforted him in search of just one pleasant fantasy. Just one. 

After a moment, John's sobbing became less gentle and he covered his face in anguish. "I'm lost," he exclaimed and pressed himself against Greg. "I'm hurting! I love you. I d-don't know what to do! Help me, please, I love you, h-help m-me." 

Greg pressed a hand over John's heart and tried to pull in a decent breath. How the hell was he supposed to help here? "You're not lost," he managed, pulling John in closer to himself, "you're right here. Everything w-will be fine and it's okay. No one is going to hurt you, John. There isn't going to be any pain, no one is going to hurt you." He twined his legs tightly over John's, protective and desperate to fix what he'd done in his incredible weakness. The telly obviously wasn't working, and John had made him promise not to sedate him. He could hardly scrape himself together as it was, what the fuck was he supposed to do? 

"Tell me why you are crying. I know you want help, what do you think is going to happen here? Are you scared of me?"

John shook his head. No, he wasn't afraid of Greg. "I-I don't...I don't know why I-I-I'm scared," he stammered and began to cry in earnest. His chest heaved and awful wails of sheer agony tore from him despite his attempt to keep himself calm for Greg. John was spiraling down into something fear adjacent, something raw and oppressive. 

"I-I-I th-thought...I-I...I'm s-s-s-sor-r-ry..." He screamed then, a long, drawn out and agonized sound, born of grief and torture and guilt and hopelessness. "No!" He cried after, aware and ashamed of what he had done. "N-n-not y-your f-f-f-faul-l-t-" Even in his panic, John wanted Greg to know it was not his doing. 

Greg was sure he wouldn't need the pills. John was going to kill him all on his own. John's scream tore right through his heart and he stopped breathing, holding his breath and losing his grip, sure he was agonizing the man. He let John go, sitting up and dragging trembling hands over his face as John fell apart. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry," he whispered under his breath over and over again like a mantra, staring at the door and willing someone to help. 

No one came though, and suddenly John was speaking to him, trying to assure him -absurdly- that it wasn't his fault when it so obviously was. Greg reached out, his hands hovering over John, not daring to touch him, desperate to do _something._ He just wanted to sleep, god how he wanted to sleep. "John," he nearly wailed, the name a broken, agonized plea, "I won't hurt you. Oh, please, _please_ John it's _me_ I won't-" He dropped his elbows to his knees and put his face in his hands, falling apart. "I am so _sorry._ "

John was gasping for breath with his mouth open wide like a fish on land. He cried out as if in pain when Greg withdrew, but his muscles were far too tense and he was immobilized, unable to follow. "I-I-I'M S-S-SOR-RY!" He shouted and tears obscured his vision. His hands were in a clawing position but he only grasped at air as he cried. 

When Greg reached out and his hands hovered just shy of touching him, John stretched forward and nuzzled his hand like a puppy. He reached his arms out and struggled to find words past this ocean of grief. "P-P-Pl-l-leas-se, I..." John cried loudly and without relief. He knew Greg wasn't going to hurt him, but the weight of his own failure combined with a terror programmed into him many months ago proved more than he could logically handle. "HELP ME!"

Greg gathered John up in his arms, locked muscles and all, as he pushed back until his spine hit the wall. He bent his knees up and cradled John to his chest, taking one hand and pressing it along John's cheek, the other slung across his back. Despite the tears on his own face he spoke low and calm, snapped back to himself in the face of John's suffering. 

"Breathe," he instructed as a command, "John, take a deep breath and hold it. Just hold it until you can't anymore and let it out slow. Deep breath and hold." He rocked John with enough force that John was sure to feel it, keeping him clutched to his chest. Tears rolled down his face but his voice and his breathing did not give them away. 

"John, you are going to focus on me and my voice. You are safe. No one will hurt you. Everything is okay." He rocked him, watching carefully to see if John would follow instruction. 

John took a deep, gasping breath but released it almost instantly. Upset with himself, he tried again, and again, until he finally managed to let the breath out slowly. He was dizzy, upset, and still weeping loudly.

"I-I-" John wanted to speak and tell Greg that he would be alright, but only managed two syllables before crashing back into weeping again. John clamped a hand over his mouth and tried to focus on Greg's voice, but he could hear his own heart too loudly.

"John," Greg called out again, pleased to see him at the very least _trying_ to comply, "John you are safe. I'm not angry. Everything is okay," and oh, what a vicious lie that was, "We are going to lie down and watch this show on matter and you are going to sleep and I'm going to hold you. That's it. Breathe. I'm not going to hurt-" his throat swelled shut at his need to assure this, "I'm not going to hurt you."

_I know that!_

John couldn't speak to reassure Greg that he knew he wouldn't be the source of pain, and an attempt only got him through a few stuttering attempts at 'I'. 

At Greg's instruction he snapped his attention to the screen and tried to focus. Space, yes. Gasses. Clouds. Star nurseries. He couldn't concentrate through his own weeping and fell apart against Greg. 

Greg gave up and just held John, soaking in failure yet again. That's where he belonged, twisting there, feeling the much deserved guilt. He nuzzled down against John's head and whispered softly, "I'd never hurt you. I'm not going to hurt you. I'm so sorry I scared you. You are safe. It's just...just m-me," he shook his head and cleared his throat, pressing on again. 

"No one is going to hurt you. I'm sorry I scared you..." 

He could not call Mycroft, who so often put him straight, and Paul wasn't an option as John hated him even when he was lucid. He was likely to tip John over the edge. So he silently endured, allowing Greg to cry against him, just holding on and rocking the man as tears slipped down his own face, dripping off his jaw and dampening his own shirt. 

John went in three minute cycles. He would slow, his breath becoming rapid but smooth, then spiral back down into panic and begin to pant and sob. Twice he made an obvious attempt at speaking where he locked wide eyes with Greg and opened and closed his mouth like a gaping fish, but no words came out. _I love you: I'm sorry._

Each time he thought he might be calming, guilt of what he had put Greg through shoved him forcibly back down into chaos. He went on in that undulating terror for nearly two hours before he slipped into an incredibly shallow, exhausted sleep-like state of rest. 

Greg was full-bodied trembling with exhaustion by the time John slipped down. John was much easier to hold onto now that he'd slipped down into the shallow sleep, the video long since stopped, leaving them in the silence which had just been awash with John's endless, endless panic. Tears had dried in long, saline line from lid to chin and his own breathing was pathetic. He dared not move, holding John to him. 

It was the perfect time. If they woke and Greg was dead, they'd happily call it extenuating circumstances. He put his mind to the bottle in his pocket, only to push it away as John dragged in a child like, hitching sob. He couldn't. Not in the same bed as John. No. He pulled John as close in as he could and held tight to him. He'd have to bide his time and wait. He'd push Sherlock and then there would be someone else he liked to touch and speak to, and Greg could go away where he couldn't _do this_ to John anymore. 

For the next few hours, John stayed in a shallow cycle of sleep and sorrow. He would wake occasionally and the tears would start quietly. He would look up to Greg, expression broken and almost _lonely,_ then shudder and fall back down. 

_He was so broken._

There were so many internal narratives in place, ones that had been either dormant or invisible. Some were indistinguishable among his normal behavior, such as the need to please Greg or his fear of being touched. Both had meant more than they appeared, and there was surely more to discover. It was like some sick, twisted archeological dig and John was being discovered one layer at a time. 

Greg held tight to John over the course of his shallow, brittle napping, never allowing himself to sleep despite his exhaustion. He watched as John would come up and look at him as though Greg had personally crushed him, absorbing into himself all that accusation, all that disappointment, and thinking on it while John slept. The menu screen for the video had a mercifully fluid loop and he watched it from time to time, when he could no longer breathe with how completely he hated himself. He did not shift when his foot fell asleep, or when his shoulder ached. He just held John, waiting for him to wake, heavy and weary with exhaustion himself. God, how he wanted to sleep. 

John's occasional dreams were stressful and he woke with a whimper dying in his throat. "Greg?" He nestled further into the blankets and cried lightly. 

"I...." He could clearly remember just what had gone on and was crushed by the memories. "What t-time is it? I....I'm sorry..."

Greg looked up at the clock on the wall and shook his head. "Half four. Why are you sorry? I'm glad you slept a little." He kept his voice gentle and calm, trailing his fingers down the side of John's face. "Are you hurting? You didn't have your meds last night." He was working valiantly to be calm.

John was greatly relieved that Greg sounded normal and not as distraught as before. "I'm sorry that I couldn't make you happy. But...I've got a plan. I'm going to be able to drink without panicking and you'll be happy then."

Greg nodded and shifted John in his arms, now that he was awake. His legs were well and properly asleep and his arm was screaming at him where the newly healed wound was. He eased John down to lay on the bed and went to his side next to him. 

"Your calendar was a good idea," he agreed, feeling both too hot and too cold, exhausted, head pounding. He was keeping his communication to a minimum, knowing tears were a steady, constant threat. 

John slowly sat up and stretched. He had more energy recently, and though he enjoyed staying in bed, wanted to do something a bit more active. 

"Can we walk? I've got to drink half a glass of water today, but we can do that after." 

John got up then and walked in a small circle around the bed to test his legs. 

"We could go to the tree. It's getting warmer out, I think."

Greg slid a hand over his face and blinked up at John, completely unprepared to deal with another day. "It's half four, John, the sun is not up yet." He sat up slowly, head throbbing and shoulders shaking, fear wrapped tight around his lungs. He'd not begun to rally from the day before, not slept, not eaten. His skin felt overly tight and too thin to protect against anything at all, the light too bright even from the telly screen, John's voice too loud despite how quietly he was speaking. 

"But yeah, we...we can walk if you want. Put on proper clothes, it's getting warmer but it's still cold." 

He pushed himself upright and got to his feet, pressing a hand to his temple before going to the side drawer and fetching out a few tablets for pain, taking them dry, not daring water in front of John at the moment. He gave him a faint smile and sat down in front of his shoes, starting to put them on. 

"Well then we can watch it rise," John responded. He didn't have much concept of time. He slept when his mind permitted him to, and was awake when he was sane enough. He wasn't going to pass up a perfectly good period of mental tranquility just to subject himself back to his unpredictable dreams. 

John got out a pair of jeans and an old jumper. He didn't want to take his sweatpants off, and the jeans were too big now anyway, so he put them on over the soft gray material. "You okay?"

Greg resolved to do everything he could to keep John happy and calm. "Fine, yeah," he said with a gentle smile, noting that John was now no longer comfortable to change in front of him. He nodded to himself, accepting that, and finished tying his laces. He stood up slowly and offered his hand to John, the room spinning slightly and his body heavy. It would be hours and hours before he had a chance to sleep now. 

"Ready?"

John managed his own shoes with only a small amount of difficulty on the laces. "Ready. I haven't seen a sunrise in forever. You know what else? It's weird to think about, but I haven't seen an animal apart from the little ones like beetles or birds that I see from in the courtyard. It doesn't bother me, it's just weird." John continued to speak about relatively inane topics and took Greg's hand on the way. 

"I think I can walk a bit."

Greg walked them slowly out into the cold night air, breathing deep and closing his eyes for a moment as the gravel crunched under their feet. John's thin hand was warm in his and the air was just humid enough to soothe his throat. 

"Early enough to catch your stars," he whispered gently, watching the sky as they slowly moved. "Was a good idea to come out, it's nice." 

John sat down in the grass about halfway to the tree and laid down on his back. He stared up at the stars, as he had before, and was filled with the same tranquility, it always gave him. He didn't tear at the grass, or mind being on his back, or need to cross his arms over his chest. 

Greg sat down next to John before giving it up and laying on his back, staring up at the stars with him. He closed his exhausted eyes and focused on the feel of moist, cool air moving in and out of his body. His mind was racing fast and he just ignored it, trying to keep himself calm and not focus on too much else. 

John was worried about Greg and anxious about the future, but he was trying to enjoy his current state of rest.   
"Greg, you keep saying that I'm strong. I keep saying that I've only gotten this far because of you. But if you believe I'm strong, do you believe I can make you happy?"

Greg gave himself a few minutes to think on his reply, pushing down the initial flash of panic at being asked a simple question. He didn't want to talk, or input on anything at all while so delicate himself. He kept his eyes closed, taking a few slow, deep breaths as he tried to push groggy words into some semblance of something helpful. 

"Yes. But, I say that without thinking that's your job. It's not. I'm responsible for how I feel, John. It's...I don't want you thinking you've failed if I'm not. Yes, I think you are strong and yes, I think you do things that make me happy, but please know I don't expect you to...to...I mean, it's not...yes, I think you are capable of that." 

His heart was hammering against his chest so hard he swore the ground was echoing with it. He'd likely botched that explanation and held his breath, waiting for the fallout.

John gave a small nod. "I know it's not my job. But it's not your job to be helping me. It's not. It's not either of our jobs, but we're doing it anyway because that's what friends do. If you think I am capable of helping you, then know that I am going to try very hard. I'm just supposed to help people." 

Here was where John stated the most basic truth about himself. It was such a fundamental part of his personality that Moriarty had been unable to strip away. John hinged his recovery on his ability to help those around him that he cared about. 

"I'm going to help you because you're my friend. I don't know why that makes you uncomfortable."

Greg exhaled slowly, desperately trying to hide his tension. He could feel the ice cracking under his feet, threatening to give with one wrong step. How could he explain this without hurting John?

"I..." he hummed and opened his eyes, blinking up at the slowly lightening sky. "If it helps you to help me, then that's...that's good." He hedged like a coward, trying to skirt the question and hoping it was enough.

John hummed and stared at the sky. It wasn't exactly the answer he was expecting, and wasn't really much of an answer at all. "Why does it upset you when I bring up trying to make you happy?"

Greg was quiet for a long time. 

_Because I don't feel like I can be happy, and you'll blame yourself._

_Because I don't deserve happy._

_Because I don't deserve your regard._

_Because I can't take the pressure._

_Because you're not happy._

He finally turned his head toward John and spoke softly, going with honesty as he didn't have the energy to lie. "It's...complicated. And something...something is wrong with me and I'm...I couldn't make myself be happy yesterday and it crushed you, and why should I get to be happy when you are so sad? When Sherlock is hurting so much? I'm nothing here, I'm not important, I...I want you to use your energy to help yourself and Sherlock, I don't...don't deserve your focus." 

John shook his head and a small pained sigh escaped him. “Nothing is wrong with you. Absolutely nothing. You’re just…You’re depressed. The point of being happy is that you’re not supposed to make yourself feel it. That means I’m failing, not you. And I know it’s not my job. It’s not. You should get to be happy because I love you. Sherlock won’t…Sherlock won’t be any happier because you’re depressed! There isn’t a shortage of the feeling!”

Greg chewed on the inside of his lip as he listened to John. "That's just it," he whispered as his vision blurred, his gut twisting terribly.

"I don't want you to feel like a failure because I can't get it together. You have _so much_ to focus on, John, and yesterday you did so incredibly great with the water. My...failure to put whatever damage I have in my head aside hurt you. You thought you failed, when you so brilliantly won. I-" he dashed a hand across his face as he felt a hot tear spill over his lashes, "I ruined it for you and it's no fault of yours. I'm...I'm just not as...mentally disciplined as the rest here and-" he shook his head and looked back up to the stars, breath hitching as he tried to keep himself calm. 

Christ, he was tired. 

John slowly rolled over and propped himself up on one elbow by Greg's head. "You didn't ruin it. Yes, I did it to make you happy, and you weren't. But...If you think about it, it prompted me to make a calendar. Paul said that was a good idea." John settled down so he was lying down just beside Greg, one arm over his chest. "I'm not going to be alright all the time. I get confused so easily...I...Please, don't let things I say when I'm confused hurt you. Just ask me after and I'll tell you if I meant it."

Greg wrapped his hand over John's where it hung over the side of his chest and nodded. "I know you're not going to be okay all the time," he breathed, the air fogging slightly just above his lips, "you shouldn't have to be, and I...god I can't believe you are doing as well as you are." He swallowed against the lump in his throat, not at all sure where the hell this round of emotion was coming from. 

"I don't get hurt from...I...it's m-me that always puts you in a panic and I-" he pressed his free hand over his eyes, head pounding. "I'll ask," he whispered after a moment, "I'll ask." 

John kissed Greg's temple and settled next to him. "I'm confused, and scared, and I'm not thinking clearly and when I am what I think about scares me back into not thinking right again. But remember how I was? How I had to be....had to be strapped down all day?" 

John looked at the rings of scars around his wrists, both from cuts and the constant rubbing of cuffs or ropes or chains. "This is sad for me. All of this. But you make it better. You'll need to push me, and I'll panic. But it's to help me."

Greg nodded, biting his lip to hold it steady and pulling in slow, deep breaths. "I'm supposed to protect you. I...I'm bad at pushing, I don't know when to start and when to stop and- and-" he grit his teeth as a rough sob tore out of his chest despite his careful hold and he shook his head, dropping his hand away and looking at John. 

"What if I mess up with the water? O-Or the food and I set you back or y-you won't see me for another month or-" he dashed his hand across his face again, shaking his head.   
"I'm sorry, these aren't your problems, I'm sorry. I've got to get it together."

John felt Greg's sob rip through him and flinched. "I...No, no, I won't send you away. I'll always see you. I don't care what mistakes you make. It doesn't matter what mistakes you make! I promise you, I love you. If you set me back, we'll regain the time. It doesn't matter. I swear to you that I will not send you away for anything. I know you won't hurt me intentionally. I know that."

Greg whispered, "Okay," thought the strangled swelling in his throat, the grief and fear trapped right under his chin, constantly threatening him. He could hardly breathe through the most recent memory of trying to sit near John as the man tore away from him, curled up in a ball hours and hours after the fact, begging Greg not to hurt him. Greg's knuckles throbbed in memory of decking Miller. Perhaps this version of John wouldn't cast him out, but John in a panic made a habit of it. 

A bird up in John's tree began to sing as the sky shifted in color, the sun slowly rising up over the horizon, still blocked from their limited view. 

John didn't know what he was supposed to do. He looked around as if for help, but found nothing to aid the broken man. 

"I'm so sorry about all of this. I know it isn't my fault, but if you look at it without me in the picture, you're going through a lot. Just because I was tortured doesn't mean you don't get to hurt too." John suddenly spotted the light changes and a delighted grin took over his somber features. 

"Oh, look!" He exclaimed and pointed up to the bird. John scrambled to his feet and walked as quickly as he could to the other side of the courtyard, where he could see the sky better. He was briefly tempted to climb up the tree, but knew even without trying that he wouldn't be able to pull himself up onto the first branch. 

Greg sat himself up, instantly finding it easier to control himself off his back. He dragged his hands over his eyes and looked at John, smiling despite his tension, relieved to see John happy about something. 

The bird. He was happy about the bird. 

Greg stayed where he was, watching the man delight in his finding. The sky began to wash a dusky orange, the color whispering along the darkness. He breathed deep and sighed with the effort of relaxing. His hands were shaking, but he ignored them, putting his focus to John.

John's eyes were wide and darted from the little bird in the tree to the blushing sky. John smiled up at the bird as if it would understand what delight its song had brought him. The bird flitted about on its branch, singing of what to John sounded like spring, life, and freedom in full throated ease. 

Light pinks mixed with the orange and the bottoms of the clouds were painted with sparkling gold. John knew he wouldn't be able to see the sun itself until it was later in the day, but it didn't bother him. Yes, the sun was out of his reach for the moment, but he could see the promise of it. 

Greg took the moment to reach into his pocket and shake out a few of his anxiety pills, swallowing them down with haste. He didn't want John to see him medicating himself. When he was unsteady, it was easy to see the fear in John's expression. Greg folded his knees up in front of him and rest his arms and head down as he watched John take a moment from his suffering to enjoy something beautiful. 

He remembered the first day he'd gotten John up here, tubes and drip bags in tow, the man hardly able to stand after the escape from the mental facility. He was much improved since that day, at least, even if he was still set back in many other ways. He'd been making impressive strides before coming here, exposed to Moriarty again, watching Sherlock take rounds and walk into the hands of a sadistic madman. 

He inhaled and closed his eyes, feeling sleep tugging at him. Just before he dropped off, in the span of seconds, he shook himself awake and shifted, forcibly keeping his awareness. 

John stood on the tips if his toes and watched the sunrise over the edge of the walls. Directly above him was a light shade of blue-violet that faded into pink before his vision was blocked by the facility. John looked away only to watch the bird move in little circles around the tree branches as if looking for something.

John wished he could remember such beautiful sights forever. The tree was slightly silhouetted against the bright sky now, and John watched the golden clouds fade to puffy and white.

John hummed one if Sherlock's songs as he watched and rocked back and forth from heel to toe.

Greg watched John bustle enthusiastically around the tree, focusing on the sky and the bird, before he gave into the urge to close his eyes again. He'd just rest them for a little while, just while John was distracted and happy. He was better advised to keep himself quiet and away from John just then, anyhow. He welcomed the darkness behind his lids and leaned heavily against his knees, slightly calmer now that John was as far away from panic as he had been in days. 

John waited until the sky was completely alight and only had the faintest traces of violet and pink to walk back over and sit down next to Greg. The sun would peek up over the walls at some point, but until then, he was content to lie down with Greg. 

He wasn't sure if the man was asleep or just resting, and curled up on the grass beside him as quietly as possible.

Greg did not feel John lay beside him as he drifted off, still leaning against his own knees, head pillowed over his arms. He was drifting in a light, messy sleep, flashing imagery chaotic over his exhausted mind. His fingers twitched against his knees as he watched John calmly walk to the edge of the Thames, turning back to smile at Greg against a brilliant sky, birds singing and children laughing. John waved, his hand undamaged but his body slowly cracking physically apart. Greg called out to him, walking slowly to catch up, smiling to himself. It was warm and Sherlock sat on a nearby bench, playing away calmly. 

John was suddenly at his side, whispering in Greg's ear. _Now I can go_ , he said warmly, brushing his lips against Greg's cheek. Greg turned to speak, puzzled with John's behavior.

His wife was suddenly in the place John had been, staring at John as he walked to the bridge. His children bumped into Sherlock, who grumbled and changed the tune. 

_You always cock it up, don't you Greg?_ She whispered sweetly as John climbed up on the railing, turning back to smile brilliantly at Greg, keeping eye contact as he pitched himself over the edge. Greg screamed for him as his children faded away, feet locked in place, immobile. 

He came awake with a hard startle, tears sliding down his face, breathing far too fast as he searched for John in the momentary confusion of waking. 

John was pushed slightly back when Greg awoke so suddenly. John knelt beside him, reached out and pulled him into his arms. "Hey, Greg, it's okay." John could recognize a nightmare when he saw one, and knew it must have been a bad one to startle him so badly. 

"I'm right here. I'm right here. Nothing bad has happened. It was just a dream, yeah? Just a dream. It'll be alright."

Greg dragged in a deep, sudden breath as he latched on to John. He clutched at him, pulling John as close as he could. "Oh god please," he breathed, tucking his face against John's neck to assure himself John was solid and breathing. His stomach twisted and he tightened his hold on him, shaking and deeply sad.

John rocked Greg lightly and rubbed his hands up and down his back to reassure him that he existed. "Yeah, I'm right here. I'm here. Nothing bad has happened...Well, I mean...It's okay. You're fine. I'm fine, and you're fine."

Greg slowly eased his grip, feeling sick at his stomach and strung out. "Sorry, I'm sorry," he whispered, slowly eating back.

The sun was nearly up and he tipped his face up to the sky, suddenly wanting to check on Sherlock. "Dream," he breathed to himself, dragging shaking hands over his cheeks. 

"Yeah...You had a dream. Bad one, too. I know. It lingers. What happened?" John scooted forwards towards Greg even as he leaned back. "You're alright, though. It's okay. I'm here, yeah? I'm here."

Greg blinked up at the sky and shook his head. "I...you...I lost you," he whispered, swallowing against the dream. He swore that he could still feel her breath against his ear, reaching up and curling his fingers around the shell, shivering at the memory. He looked back at John and shook his head. "I'm okay, just..just a dream."

John nodded and kissed Greg's cheek. "Well, you haven't lost me here. I'm still here and you're going to be alright. Do you want to do anything? I've got to have the water at some point...and I'll need another tube of food. But then we can play a game."

Greg shivered hard as John kissed his cheek and leaned his forehead to John's shoulder. "Do you want to watch a movie? I didn't sleep last night and I'm...I n-need to sleep. We can come back out but I need...I'm sorry, I just need rest. I think that...that will help." 

He had his phone in his hand now, the mobile shaking as he tried to peck out a message to Mycroft. 

_How is Sherlock?_

"Oh, of course. Sorry, I didn't know you hadn't slept. We can go back inside. The sunrise was beautiful! Did you see the bird? I like the part when the sun just comes over the horizon and the bottoms of the clouds turn gold or pink or something. I couldn't see the sun, but the clouds sort of reflected it. That was fun. We should do it again." John took Greg's hand and led him back towards the door, walking with more strength in his step than he had since the incident.

 

Mycroft moved his phone from his pocket as slowly and quietly as he could and checked it. 

_He had a bad bout yesterday. He was lucid for a bit though. Currently sleeping. Likely going to wake up any time._

Greg let John pull him along, waiting until they were back inside John's room before he read the text from Mycroft. He moved to the dresser and pulled out of his clothes without thinking, pulling on sweats and leaving his feet bare, shaking with exhaustion. Greg climbed into John's bed and dragged the covers over himself, leaving space for John if he wanted to join him. "We can do that again, yeah, John that's fine," he whispered. 

He then put his focus to apologizing to Mycroft. 

_I am so sorry I brought John back in. I was an idiot and thought it would help. He wasn't himself when he shouted at you, and damn you didn't deserve to hear those words ever, and especially not then. I'm glad Sherlock had some lucid time. Please let me know if I can help._

Sherlock shifted as Mycroft's phone vibrated again, not quite waking. Miller was switching out his fluids while the cardiologist looked over Sherlock's EKG, keeping careful watch over him. When Sherlock began to stir, Miller nudged the cardiologist to the door, nodding to Mycroft to let him know they'd be just outside.

John crawled into bed next to Greg, though he leaned against the wall instead of lying down. He didn't want to sleep, not just yet, but there wasn't much else to do without Greg. He ended up getting back to his feet and getting the playing cards before sitting back down. John worked at making a pitiful house of cards on the blankets in front of him, but it was a futile effort and he soon gave up.

_I believe the two of them made progress. What John said he said in panic, and I will do my best not to take it personally._

Mycroft had been pained by John's harsh snap, even though he mentally told himself that it was just the shoutings of a panicked trauma victim. He had been vulnerable and raw at the moment, but was currently a bit more sound. He waited for Sherlock to awake and gently stroked his hair. 

Greg shifted and turned so that he could face John. He smiled at John's efforts and reached out, wrapping a hand around John's ankle. "If you watch the telly you won't keep me up. Or you've got your tablet, can play on the internet or read your blog. I'm sorry I'm boring right now." 

Sherlock abruptly jerked away from his brother, coming up just enough to recognize that someone was close and touching him. He hissed as he jarred his body, pulse spiking sharply in anticipation of some sort of pain. He whimpered and turned his face away, breathing fogging the mask in rapid, panicked bursts long before he opened his eyes. 

John got up, spilling cards everywhere, and went for his tablet. "I forgot about that! I'll read the blog and find something to do. You get some sleep. I'll be fine."


	9. Cracks

Mycroft withdrew his hands quickly and scooted back until he was given permission. 

"It's My. Little 'Lock, it's My. You are safe and with me." 

It was always stressful in the first few moments of Sherlock waking up, when Mycroft didn't know if he wild be screaming or lucid. 

Sherlock held just as he was for several long minutes, never opening his eyes, still hazy in sedation. When he surfaced enough to recognize that he was receiving medical treatment, he strained his ears, trying to listen over the sound of his own breathing. His chest ached and his arm was on fire, but there was nothing new about that. What was new was the complete lack of sensation below his waist. Oh _god_ had he finally broken Sherlock's spine? Or had one of the many blows to his head caused enough swelling to paralyze him? 

His eyes shot open, looking directly down at his legs. Fear spiked across his chest, tripping up his already traumatized heart with an infusion of adrenalin as he took in the screws. He pinched his eyes closed as he began to hyperventilate, completely terrified. How could he have all of that metal thrust into his legs and not feel it? He had yet to realize that Mycroft was there, or where 'there' even was.

Mycroft realized what was causing Sherlock pain, and knew that in the context of being with a man like Moran, losing feeling in one's legs would be incredibly terrifying. 

"Hey, 'Lock, it's alright. It's MY!" He gently tilted Sherlock's chin to look at him and put his other hand on Sherlock's shoulder. "I am right here."

Mycroft wasn't yet having difficulties keeping himself calm, but this entire situation was depressing him. He reminded himself that it was temporary and would pass. Anything the enemy does to you can be taken and used as a gift. Perhaps Sherlock and John could be happier after this than they had before. Mycroft doubted it, but it was something to hold onto. 

Sherlock's eyes darted over his brother's face before he swallowed and held his breath, going very still while his heart slowed back down. 

"I th-thought they looked too...too c-careful for his work," he breathed after a few minutes, staying exactly as his brother had put him. 

"I d-don't feel well." Sherlock confessed like a child, ill and feverish. Pain had worn him down to nothing and he'd already been so desperately ill just before he was shot and captured. His chest felt horrifically bruised and the incision for the tube was wildly uncomfortable. 

"D-Don't you have decent h-help anymore?" 

Oh, thank God. The voice, while shaken, pained and hoarse, was speaking of sensible things, and Mycroft had never been more thrilled to hear his help insulted.

"They've done wonderful with you, all things considered. You're numbed below the waist, so don't be too worried about that. Your knee was badly injured, and we decided numb would be better than in pain."

Sherlock listened to his brother and took a while to just lay there and rest, exhausted and sick but deeply savoring the lack of fear. He was broken, and damaged, and likely would never recover, but he would not feel the whip or the fire again. Moran was not going to fist a hand in his hair and...

"My patella was s-severed as well as th-the Achilles. Severe contusions and likely fractures, I'm missing a swath of skin down m-my left thigh and the souls of m-my feet a-are..." he shivered and shook his head, "n-numb is better."

Mycroft was surprised that Sherlock could recall all the information. In pain and stress, most people lost track. But then again, this was Sherlock Holmes. 

"You're right. I thought it would be more comfortable for you, though I can understand why it was frightening at first. The first time my leg fell asleep at night, I woke up in the morning and fell flat on my face. I was sure they were going to have to amputate it." 

He'd hardly been five at the time, but could still remember clearly bumping his head on the floor when his leg had been completely repugnant to his command.

"Wh-what a _relief_ it is t-to hear your s-stunning conversational skills have survived m-my capture," Sherlock retorted out of snap anger, none of it to do with his brother. He was in pain and feeling sickly, each breath a reminder that he'd been made the bitch plaything of his nemesis' _lapdog_ and he'd _fucking failed._

"I d-do so hope you'll t-tell me next of your f-first trip to the d-dentist, I've been ever so b-bored without your stories." 

He winced and pressed his better hand over his chest, groaning with the pain of it. "D-did they _dance_ on me for god's sake? This h-hurts."

Mycroft would generally have snapped back at Sherlock's quips to end his rudeness, but was enjoying the pained banter far more than he should. 

"No, they didn't dance on you." 

Despite the relief of conversation, he was still generally upset with the turn of events. "I know it hurts. If it becomes too much, I can bring Miller in to help."

Sherlock frowned as he tried to put the scattered imagery together. 

"M-Miller. He...I c-confuse him for Sebastian m-most of the time, do I not? He l-looks nothing like him. Why do I do that?" 

He closed his eyes as though ready to dive into his mind for an answer, only to draw in a sharp breath as he remembered the condition of his palace. He opened his eyes again and stared at the ceiling, noting the tiles. 

"Eighteen...n-not twelve. Eighteen. E-Eighteen." 

He shuddered and looked back at his brother. "Y-You kept John s-safe. You have m-my gratitude. Has...is he...no I don't want to know. N-nevermind."

Slow creeping fear began to twist around him as he looked back to the corner where John had been, the wall where John was projected, prepared to hear him at any moment. "E-eighteen," he whispered to himself, slowly reaching down and taking Mycroft's hand as fear twisted up around his heart, clouding his ability to think clearly.

"It s-smells of brandy in here, M-My."

Mycroft was pleased that Sherlock was trying to handle his fears, even if he was dismayed that he was unable to protect him from them. "He doesn't look like Moran, but he is the one who's around you consistently other than the people you know, and he might have caused you pain before. Only helping, of course, but your mind has latched on. I have you, and you are safe. John got up early to watch the sunrise. He made a calendar to keep himself improving. He's doing incredibly well."

Sherlock tried to shut off as much information about John as he could, fully unable to handle it at the moment. 

"Th-the first thing he made me do w-was tell him the sequence. E-eight, n-not thirteen. I would not speak. He l-literally pinned my arms to the table. T-took a pin and s-scratched my cornea b-before pinning the lid t-to my eyebrow. Made me w-watch them tell John...tell John what they were going to do to him. John was so _furious._ He fought them so h-hard, My. I c-caved. I caved. He ha-had me screaming mercy within the first h-hour. _Pathetic._ " 

He swallowed against the bile in his throat, pulse up and hairs along the back of his neck standing on end as his body bloomed in gooseflesh that physically pained the raw nerve endings that were still capable of such a thing. 

"A-and to what e-end? What end? Y-You are obviously k-k-killing yourself to sit nursemaid to m-me while I scream of monsters u-under the bed and J-John is watching the bloody s-sunrise like a r-raving lunatic and G-Greg- I _lost_. I lost and-" he shuddered and clamped his jaw shut, bitter and angry. 

"You haven't lost," Mycroft said, but much more quietly. He didn't want to argue with Sherlock, no matter how right he believed himself to be. 

"John isn't a raving lunatic anymore. He's improving. Fragile, but improving. Greg...Greg is exhausted. But I'm certain with a little rest time he would be fine. And as for you...you'll be better physically very soon. Already you are proving to be more lucid than we thought. I don't mind staying with you, although that wouldn't make much sense to you. You would not know if I had left, but examine my clothes and hair and face. I've been here for hours. I don't want to leave you."

Sherlock reached up and tore the oxygen mask off his face, filled to the brim with self-directed rage. . 

"Do y-you think I am n-not bloody well aware that you a-are down a s-stone, have re-tailored your clothes to hide it, h-have not had proper sleep m-more than twice in two weeks and less b-before that? I c-can see you k-keep extra batteries for the w-work you do here and I- you are- I _know_. Th-the question is _why_? I am _useless_ now, do you not understand? You've m-more important work to do as deeply, _deeply_ loath as I a-am to label what you do as _work._ " 

He suddenly cried out, curling in around his gut as even the loss of supportive oxygen shot his pain drastically up, so fragile was his state. He was furious with himself and hopeless in his situation. 

"I ha-have _months_ of r-recovery before I c-can function _without_ m-my legs and likely m-more than a year before I walk w-without assistance and-" again he grit his teeth, his fist flexing tight around Mycroft's wrist. Moran's laughter bubbled up at the back of the room and he turned his head sharply to see, wrenching his body, torquing his chest. "N-No. God n-no." 

"Sherlock, it's alright." Mycroft put the mask back on him and put one arm gently over his chest. 

"I stay because I have a deep sentimental attachment to you. I can't just will that away, and pretending that I can would be lying to myself, suppressing emotions, and would lead to biases and dysfunctional processes in my mind. In short, you are my baby brother, and I love you. But I know that I can't be with you every second of every day. I'll help you through this, then as you gain independence I'll go back to work. But I'll never be gone forever, and you'll need only call. John and Greg will help you, and don't start with the telling them to leave. They want to help you. You should let them."

Sherlock tried to drag Mycroft to him in his fear. "'M s-sorry, please d-don't leave me with him. My I'm s-sorry. I shouldn't have- please I w-was just- I'm s-s-stupid and I sh-should have b-b-been good please don't l-leave me in here with h-him," he groaned, listening to Moran dissolve into delighted laughter. 

_Oh, Jesus Christ Sherlock listen to you. If they didn't have a damn tube in your cock you'd have pissed yourself. Delightful._

Sherlock gripped his brother desperately and screamed, pinching his eyes closed as his body locked up in anticipation of pain. 

_Brother never stopped me, little prince. Going to cry for me?_

"MY! Please! Oh please! H-Help, _help I'm sorry,_ My, I'll- you don't have- please I'll do- wh-what do you want? D-don't leave don't leave!"

Mycroft scooted closer and adhered himself to Sherlock as the man fell apart. "Hey, listen to me. Listen to me, 'Lock. I won't leave you. I will never leave you. I promise you I won't leave you. Remember that. I am right here." 

Mycroft held him just a bit closer and just a bit tighter. "I will never leave you. You've been good. You've been so strong, and so brave, and so helpful to John."

Mycroft's own heart rate had soared almost in sympathy of Sherlock's panicked one. "Look at me. I am My. I am keeping you safe. Could you tell me what you are feeling?"

Sherlock buried his face in the hollow of Mycroft's shoulder as much as his position and the mask would allow, shivering hard and holding on with so much force it was painful. 

_If big brother's in the way I'll just beat him first. Any idea how long he'd last? Wonder what he'd look like without eyelids, should we find out?_

"E-E-Eight-t-t-teen. There a-a-rr-re e-eight-t-teen," he chattered as he listened to heavy chains dragging across the concrete floor. He jumped hard as Moran dropped the table in place, rattling around in his supply chest. Sherlock began to cry, whimpering in anticipation. 

"D-don't hurt h-him," he stuttered to the hallucination, shaking his head as his mouth watered with nausea. 

Cigarette smoke filled the room as Sherlock began to cough forcefully, lighting pain up his ribs and down the center of his back. "M-My...I...h-he's here. He c-c-can't be here, r-r-right? He's r-r-right here I c-can _s-see him-_ " 

"Olfactory, visual and auditory flashbacks are to be expected, but are nothing more. You are safe with me. I will keep you safe. He will not hurt you, or John, or me." 

Mycroft was trying to make Sherlock feel safe and wrapped himself around his little brother. 

"You're going to be okay, little 'Lock. I am here. Remind yourself where you are. You are in a secure facility with Mycroft. You are safe in a secure facility with Mycroft."

Sherlock's weak heart slammed against his ribs as Moran began to drag the dull steel blade over the edge of the table as though the motion would sharpen it, the sound setting his teeth on edge. He desperately tried to hold on to Mycroft's words, listening to his voice. 

Flashback. 

Hallucination. 

_Oh, please do believe I can't hurt you. It will be so much sweeter when you start bucking for me, might make me fancy a ride._

Moran winked at him and licked his lip and Sherlock pulled at his brother before dropping his hand to his hip, intent on securing the waistband of his trousers, only to discover he wasn't clothed under the blankets. 

"S-s-s-surgery. Surgery. S-s-s-surger-r-ry it was f-f-f-for surgery. Eight-t-teen panels. E-eight-t-teen. Not real. No-not...not-t real not real ei-eight-t-teen...s-safe...My he's h-here...g-god...n-not t-t-twelve...e-eight-teen..." 

He was sweating with the effort of keeping himself present, the scent of blood and bile stinging his nose, making his eyes sting as tears slid down his cheeks. Moran cracked the whip, making Sherlock physically jump hard again, whimpering in terror, 

"M-My is...M-My is...I...I'm h-h-h-hallucinating I'm- e-e-eighteen...p-panels..."

Mycroft did everything in his power to help Sherlock in his battle to stay present. "Sherlock, listen to me. You are safe. Moran is not here. Moran could not possibly get here. Moran is gone and I am here instead. My. It is My. My keeps you safe. Whatever you see, it isn't real. This room is different. You are in a bed, not on a table. Are you comfortable? I can help you. I am keeping you safe." _And doing a lousy job of it._

Mycroft kissed the top of Sherlock's head and brushed his hair back again. He massaged Sherlock's scalp lightly, which he hoped would feel pleasant and distract him from the soreness. 

"It's me. You are safe here. Tell yourself where you are."

Sherlock leaned into the gentle fingers in his hair and dragged Mycroft's other hand up to his face, tearing away the mask and pressing the backs of his brother's knuckles just against his lip, breathing as deeply as he could through his crooked nose. He closed his eyes, determined not to look at Moran any longer, hand utterly trembling where he clutched at Mycroft.   
"W-will you b-b-bring me a blanket f-from home? I n-need something from home. My p-pillow would...please will you b-bring me s-something to help m-me remember...this r-room is so m-much like the viewing...he- I don't l-like to be n-naked he-" 

Sherlock began to physically relax as he focused on the gentle fingers working light circles along his scalp. The soothing touch was in polar contrast to the sensation he'd been expecting and while he was speaking of painful things, his heart was slowing down, his muscles easing down. "My...he...wh-why did he...of all the things wh-why...w-why-y...god it h-hurt, it h-hu-hurt My it..."

Mycroft was more than relieved that he had found something that worked for Sherlock. His fingers worked in light circles over Sherlock's scalp as he spoke. 

"Yeah, Sherlock, we can. We're going to change this room. It will be nicer. I promise. You said you wanted your pillow? John has a few things in his room from Baker Street too, and they help him." Mycroft didn't want to totally redecorate his room. Not yet. At the moment, Sherlock was struggling too much and might associate the room later on with the current terror, but an item or two couldn't hurt. "You're doing...God, I'm proud of you. You're so strong. Keep looking at me. I'm here to protect you."

_Moran broke into peels of delighted laughter at the suggestion that he was strong._

_Oh, you've got brother fooled, Sherls._

Sherlock's eyes locked to Mycroft's, flicking in panic over Mycroft's shoulder at the advancing maniac as his entire body began to quake in learned fear, rattling the bed. Heavy treats dropped down his face.  
"Coming...h-h-he's....not r--real...n-not..."

Moran traced his fingers over the halo around Sherlock's elbow before suddenly reaching down and grabbing the tube running from his side, abruptly stopping his ability to breathe. Sherlock's eyes went wide in stark panic, shifting and throwing his bad arm over Mycroft to shield him, unable to drag in a breath deep enough to allow him to scream or speak. Fire rushed up along his ribs and across his shattered arm and shoulder as the monitors began to blare. He blocked Mycroft as much as he could from the lunatic and held his breath in trembling hope his men would get there in time to help his brother.

Mycroft had no time to text and simply shouted for Miller. He gently removed the shattered arm from it's place across his chest and moved it into a more comfortable position. In an effort to make Sherlock feel secure he covered most of his chest with his own and caged his arms around Sherlock's shoulders, becoming a human shield against whatever lay in wait in his tormented mind. 

"Sherlock, it isn't real! He isn't here. How could he be? Breathe! Sherlock, breathe! You can breathe! Follow me with your breaths, alright? Follow me." Mycroft set a rhythm for Sherlock to match. 

Sherlock struggled against Mycroft, dragging in a deep enough breath to shout at him. 

"RUN!" he screamed through the fear, terrified for Mycroft’s safety. 

Miller came in and went directly to Sherlock's side, taking Sherlock's damaged arm and pulling it down back to the mattress to keep it still. Sherlock turned panicked eyes back to Mycroft, "Run! G-God RUN _RUN!_ " 

Miller pushed the mask back over Sherlock's face as Sherlock turned his eyes to him. He stared up at the man and went very still, the rhythm of his heart stuttered and chaotic. Sherlock tried to hold Moran's attention, willing Mycroft to run. With his better hand he reached up, fisting his fingers in the material of Moran's shirt, arm quaking in fear and rage. 

Only...only...Sherlock's eyes narrowed, slowly sliding up to the ceiling as he gasped for air through the blistering pain. 

"E-Eighteen," he whispered, looking back at the man he had such a tight hold of, tears sliding down his face just from the pain of jarring his body so harshly. He still saw Moran looming over him, could count the aged scars along the man's face, the places where his teeth had chipped, the flecks of gold in his irises, and yet there were eighteen tiles and Mycroft was there. Mycroft was there and he had a pillow behind his head. 

"M-M-Miller," he whispered to Moran's face, teeth chattering, gasping against the terror, "t-talk to me, ta-talk t-t-t-o me-e," he begged, the rage sliding down to desperate fear. 

Miller wrapped a gentle hand around Sherlock's wrist at his shirt. "Sherlock," he said softly, looking at Mycroft, "I'm Miller, I'm not going to hurt your brother, okay? I'm like John, and you're right, eighteen panels. Mycroft is right here. Can you breathe for me, I don't want to sedate you while you're scared." 

Mycroft was amazed by his little brother's strength once more and he ran his fingers back through his hair. "It's only Miller. Miller works for me. I am here, and I am keeping you safe." 

It was like holding Sherlock's hand as he dangled off the edge of a cliff. He could feel the man slipping, struggling to climb back on to the ledge of sanity. 

"You have blankets and a pillow, My is here and that is Miller. John is down the hall being kept safe, and nobody is going to hurt you." He massaged Sherlock's scalp gently and willed him to win this battle. "It'll be alright. Keep breathing. You've done very well."

Sherlock kept hold of Miller as he felt Mycroft's fingers in his hair again. It was still Moran's face looking back at him, but he was sure then that it was his mind -not his reality- that showed him the man. It took several minutes of effort to slow his breathing down, shivering hard in pain and fear. 

Finally he forced his fingers to relax, letting Miller go and turning to his brother, taking hold of Mycroft's arm and gripping to him desperately. 

"I'm in p-pain...s-so much pain. Please. I- th-this hurts," he managed, trying to stop the constant flow of tears. "Please, I'm- please I'll be still. I'm...I'm sorry, I g-got confused. Th-that's Miller and I'm...h-here and- p-please I'm hurting." He could hardly speak through the blistering waves of pain, tipping his forehead to Mycroft's chest. 

Miller let him go when he was calm and went to draw up something to help. 

"We'll give you a painkiller," Mycroft assured and kissed the top of his head. "You are safe and with me. Mycroft. You are in a secure facility and that man is Miller, not Moran. You're doing so well, Sherlock. I am very proud of you."

Mycroft now understood how on edge Greg had been. One wrong word could easily tip Sherlock over.

Sherlock clung hard to his brother, panting until the heavy painkiller slid through his veins. Miller kept quiet, subtly tying down Sherlock's damaged arm with a frown. He'd wanted to leave him loose, but if Sherlock was going to flail about in fear, then it had to be done. He moved to Sherlock's feet as Sherlock began to speak to Mycroft in French. 

"He laughs a-at me," Sherlock slurred, hand shaking in the material of Mycroft's shirt, "he w-was going to have your eyelids. I've gone mad. I've gone completely mad. The p-palace is gone and I see-" he shook his head and quieted himself, holding tight to his sibling. 

Mycroft wondered what about being born from the same parents and raised in the same house could bond two people together so strongly. Survival of the species? Perhaps it was that he had learned from a young age to protect Sherlock. Perhaps it was that his little 'Lock had been his charge until he was old enough to begin to resent his help. 

I worry about him.

Constantly. 

"I promise you, Sherlock, you are safe. You're Not mad. Not mad at all. You're in pain, and you've been through a lot. This is normal, and you will move past it." 

Sherlock held tight to his brother until his strength failed him, his grip loosing despite himself. His hand slid away from Mycroft's arm and he all but whimpered in discontent, shivering with exhaustion. 

"Y-You have to sleep and e-eat. Cakes or...s-s-something n-nauseatingly sweet and terribly f-fattening that you are s-so keen on. Too...too thin. E-eat. W-work so you c-can rest. I'm not worth this e-effort. Shower...change clothes. Sl-Sleep and-" he grit his teeth as a wave of pain broke through the narcotic. 

He breathed through it, grumbling in French still, "My...I k-know I'm impossible and...and...the m-most ungrateful ch-child and-" he shook his head and touched the back of Mycroft's hand. "Th-thank you, My," he whispered, looking up at his elder sibling, "I'd b-be lost...p-please endure m-me." 

Mycroft hadn't eaten something other than out of necessity since this whole ordeal started. That was strange, as generally speaking he ate when stressed. 

"Yes, I'll eat. I'll send someone to that little bakery near the office to pick up some of those little decorative cakes. I will stay with you. I promise. I'll move a bed in here so I can sleep properly when you don't need me, but I'll never go far. I'll shower and change clothes." Mycroft was a bit worried now. If he didn't appear to be in a sustainable way of life -and Sherlock would know- then he might worry that he would leave. "I'm going to stay with you. You aren't ungrateful."

Sherlock closed his eyes, reluctantly drawing away from his brother. "J-John is still...still here? He...I had a d-dream..." he drew his hand to his chest defensively and touched the side of his face where he'd remembered John resting against him. His throat constricted and he ached for a moment in longing for his friend. Christ how he missed the man. 

"N-nevermind, don't...don't...it's..." he drew in a deep, shuddering breath and tried to find something close to comfortable as sleep began to pull at him, "I don't want to know." 

"No, John is perfectly alright. He was walking around outside last update I had of him." Mycroft continued to touch the sides of Sherlock's face, run his fingers through his hair, and brush his hands over his shoulders in an effort to keep him present and aware.   
"He's getting so much better."

Sherlock put all his focus to the touches along his face. "W-where will he go when...when you've handled Moran? Is...is he going to s-stay in London? I...it's s-selfish but...I...i-it would be n-nice to know he's close when..." he swallowed and his chin dipped, dragging in a deep breath and blinking up with heavy lashes, eyes bloodshot and glassy, "I m-miss him, My." 

"He'll stay in London. He'll live just next door to you, if you want. John can visit you soon, once you both are feeling better." 

Mycroft was grateful that they seemed to have passed that event by without dipping into panic, but knew it would only take one stray thought from Sherlock or one wrong word from him to set it all off. 

"He can come lie down with you again soon. Would you like that?"

Sherlock stared at Mycroft for a moment as his lower lip trembled. He closed his eyes and shook his head, his chest hitching on a sob, "N-no," he breathed as slow tears began to seep over his lashes.

"Okay...okay, whatever you want. You get to decide when you want to see him and when you don't. It'll be alright." Mycroft briefly wondered what caused such polar responses to the idea of seeing John.

Sherlock dragged his hand over his face, sniffing hard as he tried to get his grief under control, just wanting it all to be done. 

"I scare- I scare him. H-he is never glad to b-be here he...endures. J-John has been made to endure too much already. I will n-never s-s-see John again." 

There was a sense of intense, crushing grief, and flowing relief in the words. The finality was peaceful, if not deeply sad.

Mycroft didn't want to open an argument with Sherlock, but he didn't want to let him live with the crushing sense of loss. 

"Maybe you can text him then, or talk to him on the phone. You could send him videos and pictures. That would not scare him. I am certain."

Sherlock was still and quiet for several minutes, calling to mind the cowering man under the blanket, screaming for Greg to save him. He'd have gladly put a gun to his own head in that moment to calm John's fears. 

"I...I...I-I'm pain a-and f-fear to John. N-nothing more. I'm dead t-to him. I m-miss..." 

_You machine._

Sherlock flinched at the memory, the bitter anger in John's voice as he spoke the truth of him long before any of this began. He clawed through his mind for flashes of _brilliant_ or even a smile, but all he could call up was bitter disappointment or the sound of John pleading him for mercy. He whimpered in pain that no narcotic could touch, his heart squeezing in on itself. John had always torn himself away from Sherlock and buried in the safety of Greg. 

"W-why do I destroy e-everything, My? Why do I a-always...always ruin..." he trailed off, aching too desperately to articulate further. 

"You don't ruin everything, Sherlock. You are not responsible for this. You did not hurt John. You did not hurt him. Moriarty hurt him, not you. None of this is your fault. Even if John hadn't gone to Africa, he would have been taken. You know how Moriarty is. He would have found a way." 

Mycroft wanted to call John in. He wanted to make the man reassure Sherlock somehow. He didn't care about the man's personal growth apart from how it affected Sherlock. Now, that's not to say he was cruel. Mycroft had learned from a young age how to be a decent human being without actually caring about most people. He wasn't going to treat John wrong or cruelty, and he planned to provide for him no matter what the outcome was. But he didn't _feel_ anything towards him. 

"I did," Sherlock breathed, starting to shake as he listened to John begging him not to hurt him, "I did hurt h-him, I hurt him. I- I cut him and I m-m-made him live. I p-picked him u-up and-" he sobbed in regret, John's screams echoing in his head. 

_Afghanistan or Iraq?_

"I _m-met_ him. D-Donnovan w-was right to warn him off and I knew a-and...n-no My...I h-hurt him. I p-put e-e-every mark he c-carries...I did th-that, _I did that._ "

Perhaps Moran's method of torture had worked to some small degree. While not as elegant and clever as Moriarty, the man knew how to inflict pain. "Sherlock, you did not hurt John Watson! You improved his life! He was always so happy when he was with you. Donovan has personal issues with you which led her to be spiteful. You did not put those marks on him! Moriarty did!"

Sherlock nearly bit through his lip, crying silently as Mycroft spoke. He could not remember John happy. "He w-was never h-happy. I made h-him miserable. He l-left. I m-made him miserable." 

Oh, how he just wanted to push morphine or heroin into his veins until his heart stopped and he could go into the calm oblivion. There was nothing left for him. He'd left a legacy of destruction and would be carried off on sighs of relief when he was finally gone. "I...I am an affliction, s-something to be endured. I...p-please j-just let me go, My. L-Let me go. There is n-no one w-w-willing to endure me a-after you."

"John was always happy on those cases of yours." Mycroft insisted once more. "The two of you were always getting into trouble. You made him happy, and you were never an affliction. He doesn't just endure you, 'Lock. He comes to you to help you. Believe me, if he didn't want to, he wouldn't. He's become quite strong willed recently."

Sherlock reached up and tore the mask off his face, tossing it aside as he stared at his brother, tear streaked and trembling. "S-stop lying to m-me. S-s-stop!" He opened his mouth to speak again when he stopped, dragging in a deep breath over and over again, suffering without the additional oxygen. "He w-will n-never live with m-m-me again. I will n-never work cases again. I-I'm _charity_. He f-f-finds some...purpose in f-forcing h-himself...himself...t-to...

Sherlock trailed off, trying to catch his breath, deeply aching with loss and grief. 

Mycroft put the mask back over Sherlock's face before he spoke again. "No, Sherlock, I am not lying. If John finds purpose in helping you, then let him help. But he chose you. Even when he thought you were the one who had hurt him, even when he still had memories of you being the one to torture him, he protected you when the hospital was attacked and you were shot. You can ask Greg if you don't remember yourself. He stopped your bleeding and stayed with you. What does that mean, then?"

Sherlock cracked a broken smile from behind the mask as tears dripped down into his hair. "That h-he is a good m-m-man. He r-rendered aid to the enemy while deployed, too. T-told me he u-u-used to love me once, he th-thought," his lip dipped in at the words and his eyes slammed shut, crushed by the meaning of that insurmountable loss. It was incalculable, how very much was gone now. 

He could hardly breathe around the mountain of grief. 

Exhaustion weighed heavy on him and he tried to comfort himself with the knowledge that for now, just for now, he shared a roof with John and that was more than he deserved. 

"He loved you before, and he will again. I swear it. He's going to love you because I believe he never stopped. John is a loyal man. I am confident he will recover. He laid down next to you. Nobody asked him to do that, nobody even asked him to touch you. But he climbed up into bed next to you." Mycroft tried to alleviate some of his stress with hopeful words. 

Sherlock kept himself quiet, too worn out to speak any longer. He was a loss, too weak to have properly killed himself when he'd had the chance, the long line of sutures along his neck a reminder of his failure. His fingers curled in the blanket over his heart as his breathing hitched and caught, stuttered and tripping. Fear and grief settled on his shoulders as the darkness of sleep slowly settled down over him, pulling him down with tears on his face, lonely and hopeless as consciousness bled away. 

Mycroft held Sherlock close to his chest and rocked him as he fell asleep. He was greatly distressed, hungry, exhausted, and needed a shower, but he wasn't going to leave his baby brother. He texted Paul and Greg the update.

_Sherlock is fighting the hallucinations successfully, but is in great despair. He's deeply afraid of hurting John with his presence._

Greg read the text several times, groggy even after several hours of sleep. He stretched and looked over at John, simply handing him the phone so that he could read the text. 

Paul responded rather swiftly. 

_I'm heading over. I don't find this very surprising, outside of his ability to stave off hallucination. That's highly encouraging._

John frowned at the phone and put his tablet down. He had been avoiding reading the blog, though he wasn't sure why, and was watching various senseless videos on the Internet. "Yeah, that would make sense. It is stressful to be around him, but it's not his fault."

Mycroft was grateful to Paul, and thought to himself that the man could write fantastic papers after having studied these two men's condition. 

_I believe he saw them, but was able to work past them logically. It was very difficult for him, and he is currently asleep._

Greg rolled on his back and looked up at John, taking the phone back. "Oh," he said quietly, disheartened by that response, "alright." He dragged a hand over his face and responded to Mycroft with squinted eyes and a throbbing headache. 

_I'm sorry._

Paul knocked lightly on the door before pushing it open, walking inside and going to Mycroft's side. Sherlock was snoring slightly, a sign of the stress his body was under given that he normally did not. He looked over Mycroft and shook his head. 

"You need to go take care of yourself. Let me sit here with him. Come tell me about it when you've showered and gotten out of that three piece. Put on something comfortable, Mycroft. Goodness." 

Mycroft looked down at his rumpled clothing with mild disdain. He hadn't worn casual clothing in front of coworkers...ever. At home, yes. But not in a place of business. But perhaps he could make an exception. "Alright. If he wakes, text me and I'll come. He's had a stressful day, and in turn, as have I."

Paul assured Mycroft he would text him, settling in to keep an eye on Sherlock. He knew Mycroft was well passed stressed but given the man's personality, chose to say nothing of it out of respect for his need for privacy. 

Mycroft kept his head up and his shoulders back as he went into his room, but once invisible behind the closed door he slouched down and ran his fingers through his hair almost frantically. 

\--------------------

John looked to Greg. "But I do like helping him. It's just hard. It's not so much him anymore, just the things I used to associate with him. It's like...I know he won't hurt me, but he smells like...like pain. I remember reading that the sense of smell can hold the most powerful memories. Something like that. I don't really remember that well."

Greg pushed himself to sit up and pulled John into his arms, needing John to first understand that he loved him no matter. He hugged him tight and nuzzled along John's shoulder before sitting back. "Why do you like to help him? Is it for your own sense of purpose, or is it about him specifically?"

John looked down at his tablet for another moment, then spoke. 

"I don't know. It's what I'm supposed to do. I can't say why, but I just need to help him. I loved him, remember? Maybe I still do. Not...not the same way, but... I know that if faced with the choice, I'd go back in his place. But I don't want to play cards with him, or watch Telly. I would take his torture...I'd take it in his place..." John shuddered and crossed his arms. 

"I'd go back to the crowbars and whips, but I don't want to hear him speak." He suddenly looked up to Greg with worry in his eyes. "Am I a bad person?"

Greg shook his head as soon as John asked. "No. No you are _not_ a bad person." 

He was trying to keep himself objective. John was trained to hate Sherlock, to fear him, so naturally he wouldn't want to spend time with him doing normal things. To say that he'd stand in for torture was a deep level of...something. But Sherlock would need...those exact things, and Greg had intense doubt that John would return to them unless forced to, and even if forced to he may not ever _choose_ to be near Sherlock. 

He thought back to that broken body down the hall, the endless months that Sherlock had torn himself apart, as he looked at John. He'd forced them together and John had gotten into bed..."Why did you lay with him, John? You crawled up next to him. You were in hysterics when we moved you away."

John wasn't convinced by Greg's words. Wasn't it selfish to say he didn't want to watch Telly with Sherlock, after he had sacrificed himself to save John? 

Greg's question caught him off guard. 

"I...he was panicking. It seemed like the right thing to do. It's how you calm me down, and being held is helpful when you're hurting. I wanted to show him that I wasn't afraid of him anymore to make him feel better. You should have seen, Greg, how calm it made him when I laid down. I don't know why, but it helped him.”

Greg smiled at John and nodded, "I can imagine. He's missed you. It's alright though, if you'd rather not see him again. What was done to you was very difficult and it was very kind of you to care that he was panicking. I've only asked you about him because, well, it would be unkind to give him a false sense of hope. He's healing, and he needs...realistic goals. Just like you need realistic goals. It sounds as though he thinks he's doing you harm just by living. Is there any way you can communicate to him how that's not true?" 

Perhaps if they could get Sherlock to at least believe that he wasn't harming John by breathing, Sherlock would eventually find...some way of...moving on. 

"No, I'll go back." John stated firmly but slightly inanely, as if he didn't understand the weight of what he was stating. 

"I'll go back and help him again. He doesn't hurt me by existing. If he were gone, I would be sad. I would be very sad. He said several times that he would die to make me feel better, but that's not what I want. Should I write it for him, or make a video? Something he can remember? I don't want him to hurt himself thinking it's helping me."

Greg shook his head. "John. Listen to me, okay? Listen. He deserves to know if you are done with him. I know that sounds cruel, but he needs real, obtainable goals. If you don't plan on being part of his life, then he needs to work towards things he can have. It's not your fault, and it doesn't make you a bad person, we just need to be honest here. He's...very sensitive where it comes to you and if you...not wanting him to suffer, and wanting to be his friend, those are worlds apart. He's still very freshly back and he needs to focus, just as you needed to focus. If you don't want to be involved with him any longer, let's make him a video, you can let him know he's not hurting you by surviving, and you can say your goodbyes. Then the both of you can start to...move on." 

Never had the lump in his throat risen so quickly nor the pain in his chest sparked so suddenly. 

_...and you can say your goodbyes…_

John couldn't explain why he went from calm to utterly panicked in such a small frame of time, but his heart rate soared and his expression snapped to one of sheer anguish.   
"No! I said no! I said I wasn't...Why? Why do you want me to be done with him?" John was staring at his palms and hot tears sprung into his eyes. 

"I said I would go back. I said that! I did! I promised him I would protect him....and...what if someone is hurting him? Right now? I can't be done with him! He came for me in the end. He was tortured because of me. I owe him..." John was suddenly on his feet and rummaging through drawers. He remembered that the menthol to keep him from smelling Sherlock and panicking was in the bathroom, and only hesitated for a second before going to get it. 

Greg exhaled in deep relief as John grew so upset. He dragged a hand over his face and stood up, calling after him. 

"John, hey, calm down," he called out, "it's been a solid day since you've left him he's fine, calm down! Come back and talk to me." He was intensely relieved to see that there was something left in John that balked at the idea of being done with Sherlock. Perhaps there was a way to salvage this. 

"No one is hurting Sherlock. He's not in danger. John, hey, come talk to me." 

John had a look of determination on his face. "I promised him I would stand watch and keep him safe," John stated and pulled on a cable knit jumper from his drawer. 

"So I should go do that. That's what I promised I would do. I don't break promises!" He walked back over to Greg and took his hand. 

"Come on. I'm going to go make sure he's okay."

Greg took John's hand but he held fast, not budging yet, knowing John couldn't physically shift him yet. 

"John, wait. Just _wait_." He took a deep breath and tried to explain. 

"He has guards. He doesn't need another guard. Listen...how do I explain...if...if it were you and I...and you wanted...you missed me as I am with you now, and the only way you could see me was as one of the men out there with an earbud and a gun, would it not be kinder just to know you'd not see me again? He's safe. He's being kept safe. He- listen, we owe it to him to be honest about this. If he sees you, and you are only there as a guard, it's going to hurt. I think you know better than I do that he's hurting enough, yeah? This is where you cut ties, if you're done with him as a friend." 

"Stop it!" John shouted and pulled his hand away. His posture became defensive; hands in fists, shoulders squared, feet firmly planted and eyes narrowed. John did not like any of this. 

_This is where you cut ties...._

_...and you can say your goodbyes…_

"No! I'm not going to tell him that I am done with him! Just...just a few months ago you were telling me that if I killed myself, it would be cruel to Sherlock, like 'tossing him out'. But now that he is back, you're suggesting I cut ties and give him 'realistic' goals? Why are you insisting I don't see him?!" John didn't mean to be taking it so badly, but his emotions were hardly stable anymore.

Greg stepped back, giving John space as he became defensive. It was indescribably good to see him posing anything close to a threat, not breaking down in the face of Greg's intentional pushing. 

"Because now he's seen that you've a chance to live happily, which is all he'd ever went for when he realized he'd lost you! He'd not survive it if you didn't survive, but he _might_ find something else if he knows you don't want to see him any longer. He was expecting that. Hell, how many times has he said that he knows he's lost you? But to give him hope where there is none? When will you pull away? When you and I leave this facility? When he does? When will you let him know that you don't want to hear him speak, or sit near him, or see him? This is the kindest time, when he already has no hope of having you in his life. That's why I'm insisting you be honest." 

Truly, he hoped pushing John like this would have the same outcome as forcibly leaving him in a room with Sherlock. It was a gamble, and he held his breath after the play. 

"SHUT UP!" John clamped his hands over his ears and closed his eyes. His lips were pulled back in a snarl and he looked tormented and angry. 

"I can't just walk in there and say 'Oh, thank you for sacrificing yourself for me, but I don't want to see you any more'! I can't do that to him! Do you know what he went through? Because I don't think you do. I don't think you can possibly understand how bad it is. It is beyond pain. It is beyond hopelessness and beyond panic. And he did that for me! He did that for me when there was no hope of me seeing him! And now you want..." 

John thought he might be sick. 

"You don't understand what he went through! I'd be worse that the sadists that did this to us if I just left him!" John had backed away, heading for the door. Would the guards stop him? He couldn't be sure. "I'm going to go help him. I told him I would stay with him and keep him safe." 

Greg went after John, stopping him before made it to the door. 

"John, damn it, _listen to me,_ " he said as he took his hand off John's arm but blocking the exit, "I get that he suffered and I'm trying to stop him suffering more! I don't _want_ you not to see him again. I _want_ to help put the two of you back together but I _understand_ that you were horrifically abused with his voice and his likeness and that it might not be possible for you to love him anymore." He shook his head and kept in John's way. 

"You would be doing him a kindness to end this here, to let him know he has your blessing to keep living, and to part ways. This is the kindest time to do this, if this is all you want. He doesn't need a guard, he needs- John he just needs _you_ and you've said you don't want that. Understandably. Don't charge in there and give him hope that's a lie."

John whined like a small, wounded animal and tried to push past Greg. "No, no, NO! You can't just keep telling me that I'll hurt him! It is hurting him for me not to be there, and I can't...Oh, god...His face if I told him...If I told him I couldn't see him anymore, it would kill him. He would..." John backed up into the opposite wall and sank down. 

"False hope. You say it would be giving him false hope. But what's so bad about that? He told me it was all going to be okay when it IS NOT OKAY! Nothing is okay! You all lied about that and it helped me!" John began to tear at his hair for a moment before stopping and getting back to his feet. He stepped forward with the obvious intention of going for the door. 

"I won't give him any false hope, though, if that's what you're so worried about, but I will go to him whether you like it or not."

"We didn't _lie_ , John," Greg said quietly as he stepped out of John's way, his heart breaking for both of the men. This was going to kill Sherlock. He pulled open the door and sent a swift text to Paul and Mycroft. 

_John and I are coming and hell if I know how this is going to pan out._

He waved off the guards that looked at John with interest but at no point made a move to advance on him, never mind stop him. 

Paul did not respond, or even read the text, his hands already full with Sherlock. The man had come awake five minutes prior, laying completely still and staring up at the ceiling, counting the tiles over and over again in Latin. He'd hardly managed forty minutes of sleep before he came awake begging mercy for having fallen asleep. He'd not reacted to Paul, only pulled at his restraints once and then seemingly accepted his situation. Paul had sent a text to Mycroft only two minutes before Greg's text arrived. 

Mycroft was clean and dressed in comfortable, but not completely casual clothes. He wasn't going to be walking around in sweatpants in front of everyone here. He'd be damned if he looked like another patient. He ate a small, warm meal that was provided for him and drank his tea. Sherlock would notice. 

He was outside Sherlock's door before Greg and John got there and responded to Sherlock in the language he had chosen for the moment. "It's alright, little 'Lock. It's My." 

John opened the door and walked out. The guards looked at him in mild surprise, but did not move out of his way. John rolled his eyes. 

"I'm not trying to escape! I've got Greg with me. I'm going to see Sherlock. Greg, come on."

Greg walked along with John, speaking quietly to him. 

"You wouldn't have to escape. You're not a prisoner. They keep Moran out, not you in." His nerves were grating and he was somewhat irritated with John, and below the irritation, fucking _elated_ to see John assertive and doing as he wanted with his chin held high and his shoulders squared. He felt safe enough with John to be annoyed with him and it was brilliant. They moved without issued through the halls, passing the normal security fare, meeting no resistance until they arrived at Sherlock's door. 

Greg stopped John just before they went in. "Are you sure about this, John? We've never told you that someone would carry on with you that wouldn't. I'm not going to leave you when you don't need protection. None of us have lied. We haven't damn well lied." 

Sherlock failed to respond to Mycroft at all, simply carrying on counting the tiles over and over again. The water stain was there at times, others not. Was it eighteen that was safe, or twelve? He'd lost the distinction. His eyes slipped closed every few seconds and he harshly tugged at his bad arm, a habitual movement he'd learned would spike just the right amount of pain through his body to keep himself awake, oblivious to the argument in the hall. 

"I never meant that I _wouldn't_ sit with him and watch telly," John practically hissed, "just that I didn't want to." He opened Sherlock's door and walked in, much more proud than he had been in weeks. He was ready to protect his friend, ready to do whatever it took to keep him safe, and the feeling of purpose swelled his spirits. 

Mycroft was surprised to see John, then worried. The man did not look timid, he looked _angry_. Mycroft looked over to Greg in question, wondering if he should stop John before he got too close or accidentally did damage. 

His fears were alleviated when John spoke. 

"I'm here to make sure that Sherlock is safe."

Paul kept his attention primarily on John for the moment. The transformation in the man was...unprecedented. He clearly had a purpose and a drive that would not be shifted, confident to leave Greg at his back, advancing into the room without hesitation. This was unexpected in the extreme. He wondered how long John could maintain such composure, especially when he got a look at the network of pins jetting out from both of Sherlock's legs and his arm. 

Sherlock's chest stilled as he held his breath to hear better, the act of breathing behind the mask too loud and distracting. He'd been on the eleventh tile, cycling through the twentieth repetition of counting, when he'd heard John's voice. His eyes pinched shut in anticipation of the screaming, locking his body up as much as he could as he braced for pain that typically followed. 

John saw Sherlock's pained expression, the fear, the _pins_ and his general state of discomfort and his walk slowed just a bit. He swallowed hard and reminded himself what he was supposed to do. 

_Sherlock went willingly into this for me. I cannot abandon him. Those pins are for his healing. He needs them so he can walk and move properly. He is not being hurt. I will not be hurt. I am supposed to keep watch because I promised I would. I cannot abandon him._

"Hey, Sherlock," John said in a desperate attempt to sound casual. "You okay?"

Paul observed as Greg instantly picked up on John's swiftly flagging confidence, advancing in an obvious attempt to help soothe him. He did not quite touch John, but he was within arm's reach very quickly. He could see how disheartened Greg was at John's waving composure, but to Paul it was nothing short of incredible that John had managed the facade at all. 

Sherlock slowly opened his eyes when pain did not follow, the mask fogging once again as he resumed breathing. He blinked several times, looking at John before looking to Greg. He closed his eyes and chewed at his lip, allowing the seconds to tick by, before looking again. It seemed to Greg that Sherlock was trying to determine if they were there or not. When he found John still at his side, he spoke in soft Latin, not realizing he was sticking out of English. 

"Wh-who made you come?"

John gave him a confused look. He had taken some Latin in grade school, but that had been ages ago. Qui? What? Who? "I...What?"

Mycroft leaned over from his chair next to Sherlock and translated. "He asked who made you come."

John shook his head and looked almost insulted. "No, Sherlock, nobody makes me do anything. Not anymore. They can't make me do anything because I said they can't." 

It sounded far too bold, and he looked around the room as if expecting someone to punish him for saying such a daring thing. When nobody did, his confidence rose again. 

"I came because I wanted to and no other reason. How are you feeling?"

Sherlock closed his eyes again, deeply confused, dragging his fingers along the rotted door of his mind palace. There was no where left to go. Dread slowly crept along his veins as he tried to understand the situation and he attempted to pull his hand in to rest against his chest, only to remember that he was once again strapped down. He held his breath as fear spiked across his mind and wondered when John would start yelling at him. 

"I-I'm s-sorry I lived thought it-t. I kn-know I wasn't i-int-t-tended to s-survive," he whispered, struggling to speak in English, not daring to open his eyes. Sometimes it was better to not know what was coming. Sometimes. If John was going to watch, or worse, _direct_ , then he'd rather not see the look on his face. 

John untied Sherlock's better arm and stayed right next to his bed. 

"I am glad you lived. That's why I am here. You seem to have it in your head that I would be better off if you were dead. That is wrong. I would not be better off if you were dead." John put his hands on his hips and stared at Sherlock, even though he couldn't see with his eyes shut so tightly. 

"Look at me. I am here." His tone was softer now, more gentle. "I'm not going to hurt you. Nobody here will hurt you."

Sherlock opened his eyes after a great personal struggle, looking at John as a tear splashed across the shell of his ear. He pulled his arm to his chest, clutching at the blanket, directing his exhausted, glassy eyes at the man. He took in John's posture before cutting his eyes to Mycroft for assurance, not at all feeling safe. He looked back to John. 

"I t-t-told them I'd n-not ask...n-not ask f-f-or you again I-" he pinched his eyes closed as his pulse and breathing picked up, "p-please, I'm s-sorry." 

Greg shifted uncomfortably next to John. Sherlock was all but turning inside out while John was being brilliantly strong in ways that would be thrilling were they anywhere but this room, and the tangled mix of gut-turning sympathy for Sherlock and overwhelming joy for John was nauseating, to say the least. 

"I didn't ask permission to come, and nobody asked me to. I came here because I wanted to." John slowly sat down on the edge of the bed, careful as to not hurt him. "I came because I wanted to. The sooner you accept that, the better." John gave a small nod and pursed his lips as he used to when he had reached a decision he quite liked. 

"Please. Sherlock, nobody asked me to come here." John looked at the pins in Sherlock's arm and his heart rate picked up a bit. It was rather shocking for him to suddenly realize that Sherlock might not be clothed underneath his blankets. The idea filled him with protective rage, but he had no idea how to confirm the possibility, ask why, or even bring it up without alarming Sherlock. He looked back to Greg as he often did when seeking support. 

Sherlock instantly reacted to a body in close proximity as his while he had pins driven through his flesh and no clothes to provide a barrier, flinching and clutching at the blanket over his heart, clenching his teeth together behind the mask and sharply turning his face away. Sweat slicked his brow in the next few seconds and he whimpered pathetically. 

Greg put his hands up to stay John, dropping them very slowly in the universal gesture for _easy_. 

"He's only out of surgery a few hours now, John," he whispered, trying to remind John that it had only been hours since Sherlock had died and been pulled back, hoping that would help. 

Greg's voice, for whatever reason, only served to drive Sherlock's fear higher and he began to cry, locking his muscles up tight. "M-My," he all but whined in panic, not understanding what was going on. 

John tried to make himself understand what had happened, that it had been surgery, not rape, that the doctors all rushed in for. 

"Hey, Sherlock, it's alright. It's going to be okay." John scooted up so that he could lean back next to Sherlock and wrapped one arm around his shoulders under his neck. "It's okay. I'm going to keep you safe, remember? Nobody can hurt you when I am here." 

John didn't believe that. He was helpless, but he would do his damn best to keep people from touching his Sherlock. 

It took a moment for Sherlock to register that John was both level with him and not hurting him. When the realization hit, it did so with the force of a breaking dam, and Sherlock cried out as he turned toward John and tipped his face to John's shoulder. His own shook with the force of his sobbing and he let go of the blanket, reaching out and taking hold of the black cord jumper, clutching to John as though his life depended on it. He did not dare speak, knowing John hated the sound of his voice. He pulled at John, desperate for the man after nearly a year had gone by since that fateful day in the warehouse. 

Greg stepped forward, wondering how long John was going to be able to tolerate this from Sherlock. 

John's heart threw itself against the walls of his chest very suddenly when Sherlock lunged for him as if he had tipped too far back in his chair and hovered in that split second panic when you're sure you're going to fall. Slowly he calmed and realized that _Sherlock_ was crying on him. It had happened the last time they were together, but it was still a bit shocking. 

"It's okay, Sherlock. It's okay." He slowly wrapped both arms around him, though he was hesitant to move his hips all the way on to the bed to lie down. Not with Sherlock unclothed. "It'll be alright. Do you need anything?"

Sherlock's arm shook where he held so tightly to John, just as it had when he'd tried to cling to his brother, and he struggled to speak through the tears and over the muffle of the mask. 

"Y-you s-said ' _used to_ ' and I th-th-" his words cut off as his throat closed and he had to cough and drag in an desperate breath, "thought I- I th-thought you-" again the child-like drive of his crying was making speaking incredibly difficult. 

He swallowed and tripped over his breathing, whimpering and sobbing as he tried to form words, "I r-r-ruined...ruined...I th-thought you n-n-never want-ed-d to s-see...you said 'u-used to' an-and-" he shook his head, clinging to John. 

John whimpered and dropped his head down to rest on top of Sherlock's. "I'm doing everything I can to help you. You didn't ruin anything and...I'm sorry I said used to..." John hadn't been completely lucid at the time, but he remembered saying it. 

"I didn't mean it like that. I mean I...I used to...I still do, but..." John searched for some way to explain that didn't make him out to be a horrible person. 

"I would go back for you. I'd go back to Moriarty and Moran if it would help you in any way. I love you. I promise. I will keep you safe. We'll see each other." Had he not been clinging to Sherlock, John would have shot a glare back to Greg. He could do this to help Sherlock. This could be the reason he stayed alive, if not for himself. 

Sherlock slowly quieted as he listened to John. He was still crying, his face a mess, the mask fogged and his shoulders hitching, but he slowly began to let go of John after a minute of reflection. There was something just under his skin, something just not quite squared with what John said. 

_I mean... I used to..._

_I still do, but..._

_I love you. I promise._

His brows knit as he tried to put those halting, hesitant statements together. He wanted nothing more than _John_ and stupidly thought...

_We'll see each other._

Oh. His heart twisted with vicious force and he bit down on his lip, pulling away from John and nodding slowly. He curled his hand up to cradle under his own chin in an effort to self-soothe. Between hitching sobs he asked quietly, "W-will you live with Greg?"

John didn't know what he had done wrong, but he mentally abused himself for it. He brushed his fingers through Sherlock's hair as Greg did with him and played with the little curl at the nape of his neck. 

"I don't know. I haven't gotten that far. Probably." _Yes! Of course I'll live with Greg! I can't leave him!_ John didn't speak out immediately about his desire and _need_ to live with his protection, as he had a sinking feeling it might upset Sherlock. 

"It's okay. You can rest. We can worry about this later. For now, just rest. I've got you."

Sherlock whimpered pathetically as he leaned into John's touch, the gentle fingers as cruel as Moran's dull blades, getting a taste of what he could never have. What he _could have_ had were he not such an indescribable fool. The nature of his weeping shifted subtly from fear to deep, aching heartbreak. 

John decidedly did not have him, did not want him, and was going to leave him. Sherlock grieved deeply for his palace. Normally he would catalog every millisecond of their time together as he had done in the past so that he could recall this feeling of John holding him when he was starving for the man, but now there was no mechanism in place to capture the tactile sensation of John Watson's fingers in his hair. Just like the man himself, this moment was going to vanish. 

Paul watched the interaction with no small measure of concern. There was the distinct possibility that more time in the other's company would help John recall why he'd been so attached to Sherlock before the abuse. On the flipside, that plan may go nowhere and only serve to dangle John as the proverbial carrot, dooming Sherlock to watch him walk away yet again after re-attaching. It all came down to John, really, and while the man was remarkable in his progress, Paul had his doubts where the living situations, at least in the upcoming month, were concerned. 

John had always had the strange impulse to bury his fingers in Sherlock's hair. It was so curly, so rich, and he'd always wondered what it would feel like. It wasn't so much of a romantic interest, but he was so damn _curious._ At least there was one thing he could cross off his list. John ran his fingers back again and watched the curls spring back into place, despite being a bit damp from sweat. Why he was fixating on Sherlock's _hair_ , John had no idea. 

"It's...God, it's okay," John stammered when Sherlock began to cry in earnest. It pulled at his heart and made his own eyes water up. "I'm sorry, Sherlock. I'm right here. I'm here and nothing bad will happen to you. I'm here. Right here. I've got you."

Ten long, painful minutes ticked their way off the clock before Sherlock fell into a distressed, shallow sleep, his face damp and his breathing hitching as his body slowly relaxed. He'd not said anything else, not allowed himself to look at John, just accepting that the moment was happening and the moment would be gone and _used to_ was all there was left in the smoldering ash of the best part of his life. 

Greg kept very close to John but never once reached out to touch him, knowing the man had been very upset with him before they arrived. When Sherlock finally looked to be sleeping, his hand dropping down from his chest, snagging the blankets and exposing his purpled shoulder, Greg finally reached out and rest a gentle hand on John's shoulder. 

Paul held quiet, observing everyone in the room, quite taken with the intricate and constantly shifting dynamics. 

John did not let go of Sherlock. Tears leaked down his face and onto a patch of bandages on Sherlock's chest, but he did not let go. He ignored Greg until Sherlock had been asleep for quite some time and his own tears had slowed. 

He felt useless. How was he supposed to keep this up? What sort of terrible person can't stand the company of a man who sacrificed himself for him? Greg wasn't going to let him upset himself and visit Sherlock constantly. Not if he knew how badly this made him feel. But Sherlock looked so desperately broken and small, and John couldn't stand it. He didn't want to let go for fear Sherlock would feel it somehow and be dismayed. 

"I'm not leaving."

Greg looked to Mycroft before looking back to John. 

"John," he whispered, not wanting to wake Sherlock, "you are exhausted, we should go get your meds and let you sleep. You can come back, yeah?" He slid his hand along John's cheek, trying to clear away the tears and soothe him. John had gone to bits, a far cry from the stubborn man who'd walked into the room. 

"Let's let you rest and you can come back recharged, okay?"

John wanted to be strong again, but he was faced with a terrible decision. He wanted someone to talk to about it, but was afraid Greg would be biased. He rolled over to the edge ot the bed and reached out both his arms. He didn't want to walk out with the same strength he had entered with. He didn't feel strong. 

"I'm sorry. I don't...Let's go back."

Greg instantly responded, picking John up and cradling him against his chest. He did not dare look at Mycroft as he carried John out, whispering his assurances.

Paul looked over to Mycroft and then back to Sherlock. "That was...unexpected," he said quietly, trying to gauge the man's mental state.

Mycroft watched Sherlock's chest rise and fall steadily. "Yes, it was. But we can see what sort of effect Sherlock had on him. He came in so strong and left a mess. I'm sure he will improve with time." His remark was a failed attempt at optimism. 

Paul nodded, keeping his focus on Mycroft even as the sleeping Sherlock dragged in a stuttering, desperate breath, still breathing like a child dropped off to sleep in a fit of tears. 

"Yes, he was drained but that is hardly surprising. I'd not lose heart over it. He walked in here stubborn and defiant. Stubborn and defiant. That's absolutely incredible. You realize he's basically reversing his behavior, walking backwards through the tapes. He's behaving now more as he was in the second month of captivity, where only last week he was mentally down in the fifth or sixth. Sherlock's grief affected John on a much deeper level than 'purpose,' Mycroft. We may not get them living together, but I'm optimistic we can restore the friendship."

Sherlock cried out in his dreams, free hand waving in the air for a moment before his fingers curled in on themselves and he once again began to actively cry, still hard asleep.

Mycroft was glad to hear that Paul was hopeful, because his own hope was waning. "If he is simply walking backwards in his training chronologically, he'll be stubborn, angry and defiant for months. I suppose that's a good thing if it motivates him to see Sherlock, as long as he doesn't turn that anger to him." 

When his brother whimpered, Sherlock climbed up onto the bed next to him at the very edge and held him gently. "I'm honestly surprised he is doing so well. I never expected him to visit without being asked."

Paul watched as Sherlock woke enough to recognize his brother, reaching for him after tugging off his mask. He buried his face in Mycroft's shoulder and wept as he hadn't since he'd watched his childhood dog breathe his last. 

Mycroft held Sherlock to his chest and gave him time to cry. 

"I don't think that John will be ready to live with Sherlock by the time they'll need to leave."

Paul waited until he was sure Sherlock was back asleep before speaking. "No, he won't be. I don't have any doubt of that. Though he will be ready to go home before Sherlock. Will you be taking your brother to your home then? He's going to need medical care for quite some time." 

He touched his lip and gave himself a moment to think. 

"I don't think we can really put a timeline on John. He may be angry and defiant for months, or he may make another grand leap. He's an incredibly strong individual, it's quite remarkable. The key here will be keeping Sherlock in hopeful spirits. That's going to be a challenge. Is there anyone else we can put his focus to? Any other...people in his life?"

Mycroft thought through Sherlock's short list of friends. 

"There's Molly, a young woman who he considers his friend. They never had anything like what he and John had, but they were still close. He loved Mrs. Hudson, and I'm sure she'll stop by and help him as often as she can, but loud noises scare her, and she wouldn't make a good constant companion for him. I'll take him home as soon as he is medically able. Honestly...I can't see an end to this. Ideally, John, Greg and Sherlock will live together in one shared flat or home. I can't cut Greg out of the picture to give Sherlock back what he had with John, because they will need someone to be there if they both dissolve into panic."

Paul nodded. "I know this looks hopeless, but it always has and yet they both overcome. Sherlock pulled himself out of a severe hallucination, he's been mostly lucid. It's not unreasonable to maintain optimism."

Mycroft kept himself from despairing by making a mental graph of John's progress in his mind and finding that it was growing exponentially. "Yes, as he improves, he improves more swiftly. And Sherlock has an incredibly strong mind. I should be confident in them."

 

\---------------------------

 

It did not take very long to get past security, and when they got into John's room he settled the man on his bed and hooked up John's fluids and the feeding to help physically build him back up. Greg tipped out John's pills and handed them over with a very small amount of water in a cup, "Just to help them down, you don't have to drink," he whispered, sitting down next to John and wrapping his arm around John's back. 

John hated himself. When he left the room he had been in charge, walking with Greg behind him, finding his own way, speaking for himself and not needing to be coddled. After just a few brief moments with Sherlock, after less than a half hour, he was being carried like a sickly child. "I'm pathetic," he whispered, and believed it fully. 

John took the pills dry. He couldn't do the water right now, no, not now. There was an issue in his mind, a choice that had to be made, but it was a painful one, and he wished to avoid it, as if it would be less difficult with age. "Can I talk to you about something?" John asked quietly. 

 

"Not as my caretaker, or someone who needs to always say the right thing, but as my friend?"

Greg nodded to John, trying to breathe normally after watching the two man he cared for the most in the world rip one another apart. "Yeah John, of course."

John took a deep breath. He didn't particularly want to bring up the topic, but he hardly had any other choice at the moment. 

"Personally, I would keep Sherlock close but not be with him all the time. Sherlock would rather me be with him. Now, I've got to choose, because like you said I can't just give him false hope. So I've got to choose if I'm going to help him for the long run or just or now."

Greg nodded, running his hand gently over John's back as he allowed himself to think. 

"This is a hard position for you to be in, and it's completely not your fault. I'm sorry you have to even think about it." His voice was soft and gentle as he spoke to John, honestly feeling terribly for him. It was clear that John wanted to help, that he cared in the face of Sherlock's grief, but he'd been so horribly twisted against Sherlock that he could not tolerate him. 

"I guess we just...take it a day at a time. I might have been wrong in wanting you to know right now about the future. He...this is going to sound cruel, John, but you've got to put yourself first right now. If you want to help him, you've got to help yourself. I think your calendar and whatnot is a good thing to focus on. He...he knows you don't hate him, yeah? You got that message through. For now, much as it hurts, I think as your friend that's going to have to be enough." 

John was more than conflicted. "I can't foresee staying with him for the rest of my life. I just can't. But...a month ago I couldn't foresee drinking that much water." John reached out and nuzzled against Greg. "I just want to stay with you. I want to stay with you and find a tree and watch Telly and work on water. But I can't! I can't just let Sherlock sacrifice himself then leave him to himself. It would be cruel!" John was despairing. He did not want to condemn himself to a life of discomfort with Sherlock, but at the same time couldn't doom the other to an equally painful fate.

"I suppose, in the end," he began as the tears began to scald, "I'll have to choose who I love more, myself, or him."

Greg rubbed John's back and nuzzled against the side of his head. "Why don't you have a nap, and then we will talk more about it. You are exhausted, sleep will make it more clear. It doesn't have to be you or him, okay? We will find a solution."

John didn't want to sleep. He wanted to be finished with this decision. 

"In short, for me to help him as best as I possibly could, I'll need to love him again." He swallowed hard and stared at his damaged hands. 

"That's what he wants, isn't it?"

Greg drew in a deep breath and covered John's hands with his own. "John, you can't make yourself love anyone. It takes time. It's not your fault you feel how you feel, okay? It's not. You can't just...will that away. He has Mycroft with him, he's not alone. He's safe. He'll likely do a lot of sleeping, and they will give him medication to keep him calm, and...John. Please. Let's...John, that visit today was twenty eight minutes long and it pulled all your strength away. You have a beautiful heart, and wonderful intentions, but I know for a fact that Sherlock doesn't want you to tear yourself apart. Yeah, he misses you and he's sad, but he...I don't know, John. I know this is hard. Maybe as you get more comfortable with me not being in here for short periods of time I can go check on him and whatnot." 

John's expression slowly wore away to one very familiar to him. He could feel it. The upturned and drawn together brow, tight lips, watering eyes and clenched jaw were a mirror image of the time he had held a gun to his own head on the floor in the hospital and grappled within the confines of his mind. Then, he had been worried if there would be punishment for trying to end his life, as there always had been. 

Now, he was debating who he loved more; himself, or Sherlock. It would be easy, oh, so terribly, _temptingly_ easy, for him to say that his torments outweighed Sherlock's by the measure of time and mental trauma and thus he was not responsible for picking the other back up. But, he was always halted in his path by the reminder that Sherlock had willingly gone into the hands of a vengeful sadist to save him. 

"Will you get the calendar?" He whispered as if he didn't truly want it. "Please?"

Greg was anguishing alongside John and he nodded, "Yeah I'll get it," he whispered before pulling John to his chest, wrapping him in a gentle, tender embrace. He slid his fingers in John's hair and rocked him slightly as they sat there. 

"I was too hard on you, John. I'm sorry. This will sort itself over time, it will. Please, it's...I'm going to be here with you, and I'll do whatever I can to help. Please John, you've...I love you, I'm sorry." He reluctantly drew back and got up, getting the calendar and taking it off the wall. 

John took the calendar and stared at it for a moment. 

"I'll need a bath soon, won't I?" It was a small mutter, and he honestly hoped that Greg hadn't heard. John got up and once more leaned out the door to ask for a pen, which this time was given without hesitation. He sat down on the bed and leaned over the calendar. On the very next day, he started reasonably. 

10 minutes.

"You said it was twenty eight today, but it felt like years. I'll start small. I get Sundays off." John began to scribble out a plan that followed the same undulation of the water, longer one day then shorter the next, slowly crawling up until he had gotten to an end goal of an hour and a half. "It's still sort of pitiful," John muttered, "but it's about all I can consider. It's hard. If he is too sick I don't have to go, and Sundays I get to choose."

Greg made a mental note to do whatever it took to ensure that Sherlock never, ever saw this calendar. He leaned in and brushed a kiss to John's temple, inhaling deeply before speaking. 

"It's...it's a good idea, John. But Sherlock isn't like the water. I don't know if...we...we are going to have to ask Paul and Mycroft what they think of this plan, okay? He's not like the water." 

The nature of Sherlock's crying as he'd fallen asleep had been heartrending and Greg was extremely doubtful of Sherlock's ability to endure John learning to tolerate him. 

He wrapped his arm around John's back and pulled him close to his side. "John...he didn't do this with the understanding that he'd ever have you in his life again. Much as it breaks my heart to even think about, if he's...if he hurts this badly still, it's okay to let go. Water and food, you have to have those. But him...you don't have to have him."  
"I don't have to have water. Or food. I could get along just fine with the tube. Well, sort of. But I don't put much value in living, I'm sure that's no surprise to you, but I do put value in some things. I want to see another sunrise and see birds. Maybe that one will make a nest. It was hopping around like it was looking. I need to help Sherlock, and if learning to tolerate him is the only way to go, I'll do it." J

ohn swallowed hard once more and looked away from the calendar. It was going to be difficult having both water and Sherlock in one day, but he'd manage. This was what he needed to suffer through. This was the price of his weakness. 

"Maybe it won't be so hard. Maybe I'll enjoy it someday. Maybe it'll be like eating, and I'll get to have cake again. Or I'll get to have a pint with you. That would be both speaking and drinking, which I was afraid of. 

“Maybe I'll learn to enjoy being near him."

Greg sighed and nodded. "You're very selfless to try all of this. I bet this will be easier when we get home. Sounds like that's not going to be long now and then you'll be back where you've always been safe. Alright, you've made a plan, do you think you can rest? Let's do something that's not hard right now. Telly and a liedown?"

"Yeah, let's lie down." John put the calendar at the end of the bed and crawled back up to the top. "I'm not trying to be selfless. I just...I can't let him down, knowing what he went through. I can't. It would make me even more of a bad person."

Greg built up pillows at the headboard and flopped on his back, easing John to lay beside him and rest his head on his chest. He pulled the blankets up over John's shoulders and began to slide his fingers through John's hair, allowing several minutes to tick past before he began to speak. 

"More of a bad person? You are not a bad person, John, and he doesn't have expectations. You don't have to do this. I don't know how to get it across to you that it's not cruel to walk away now. It would be cruel to make him believe you will stay, only to leave later, but to say goodbye now? That would be sad, not cruel." 

John cuddled next to Greg and breathed a shuddering sigh of relief. "I am a bad person because I wasn't strong enough. I held out...God, for longer than I should have. I came out on the other side not hating him. I _didn't hate him_. That...That's actually a big deal...if you think about it. If you think about it, I should have just let him die in the hospital if I was truly done with him. That would have been a much easier way of saying goodbye."

Greg kept his fingers in John's hair and huffed a gentle laugh, "Too right it's a big deal, John. It's huge. Christ, that you are walking and talking, watching films, kicking my arse at rummy, making plans, writing, engaging, Jesus that you came out of Moriarty's care and do any of the things you are doing is a bloody big deal." 

He wrapped John up tight in his arms then, snuggling him close and smiling at him. "I'm so incredibly proud of you. You are not a bad person, John." 

He dropped the smile away then to speak of Sherlock. "All he needed from you, really needed from you, was to know it's okay for him to carry on living. You gave him that. You've done what you needed to care for him from your end. If you never see him again, you've still done right by him. It's just...you...it looked like you were grieving with him when he was crying. I could be wrong, could have been just your fear, but you looked like...like you were hurting with a friend who was hurting. If he's not your friend, then it is what it is, and we need to face it, John. We need to face it."  
"It's not a big deal that I can play rummy. I'm a grown man and I can't even feed myself. I can't bathe myself. I can't see certain people and I can't even have a sip of water without crying like a little bitch." 

He was more than a little angry with himself now, and looked at his useless hands. John didn't want to face it. Not any of it. He wanted to live in his cozy little world of denial where he could pretend like the future beyond his days on the calendar didn't matter and Sherlock would be okay as long as he kept visiting. 

"I...Greg, why? Why are you so insistent that I tell him I can't be his friend?"

Greg shook his head, keeping his tone even and steady for John. "I'm not. I'm insistent that we be real about this. It hurts him to see how much he hurts you. He's not like the water. You can toss the water across the room, yell at it, curse it, reject it, whatever you like. Water doesn't feel. You can do what you like to water. But Sherlock...it's worth it if you honestly miss him, even if it's just the idea of him, but if there isn't any of that left in you, John, then he deserves closure. We shouldn't put him through this if he still has to say goodbye to you in the end, and we shouldn't put _you_ through this either. Did...when he was crying and you...what was that reaction, John? Were you scared, or..?"

John shook his head and put his hands over his ears. 

"I was sad because he was sad! I don't know! Even when I thought it was him, when I _knew_ it was him, I still didn't want him to be hurting or die. I thought it was just me being insane or something, but it's not stopped. I want to make sure Sherlock is okay. I want to help him. It feels good to help him, sort of. Like it feels good after I've drank water and you're proud of me. It feels sort of good to be helping. I feel useful. Or, at least, less useless." 

John dipped his head under the covers and willed himself to fall asleep. He didn't want to talk about this any longer. 

"I'll not say goodbye. I'll be a part of his life as much as I can until I die." 

Greg did not speak again. He simply trailed his fingers over John's back gently and kept his breathing slow and deep, providing as calm of a situation as possible for John to fall asleep with. John's response was encouraging. If it made him feel good at all, it was likely he cared for Sherlock as deeply as he had before. They hadn't been able to make John hate him, and the only way that was possible was if John did not truly believe that Sherlock had been the one to torture him. Not at the foundation, core level. He closed his own eyes after a few minutes and tried to allow sleep. 

"I'm going to help him..." John was pulled rather suddenly into an exhausted sleep despite his desire to argue his point further. 

\-------------------------

Sherlock opened his eyes nearly ten hours later. He blinked up at the ceiling as he drew in as deep of a breath, licking his dry lips and speaking roughly in the dim light. 

"Mycroft?"

Mycroft had fallen asleep beside Sherlock less than an hour after he had dropped off himself. When Sherlock spoke he sat up and rubbed the sleep from his blurry eyes. "Yes, 'Lock, I'm here. What is it?" Mycroft noticed the dry lips and reached for his water bottle.   
"Your mouth is dry. I'll get a cup and you can have some water."

Sherlock turned to face his brother before sweeping his eyes over the room for John. He nodded to himself, accepting that John was gone.

"I don't want any water," he whispered without inflection.

Mycroft nodded and put the bottle back. "Alright. That's alright. How are you feeling? You got a good amount of sleep."

Sherlock closed his eyes and flexed his good hand, breathing deep and steady, resolved. "What progress must be made for these hateful contraptions to come off?"

"You continue to hurt yourself, Sherlock. I've given you the benefit of the doubt each time and unclasped your hands, and it always ends poorly. I am deeply sorry. Your arms will be healed more soon. I'm not certain, but you might have a few more corrective surgeries." Mycroft always wanted his brother free, but after the past few episodes, couldn't in good conscious let him out just yet. 

Sherlock's jaw clenched and he turned his face away from his brother, breathing slightly unsteady with the shock of that response. He licked at the back of his teeth and ran through number sequences for the next few minutes in an effort to keep himself calm. 

When he finally spoke, his voice was rough and defeated. "Th-then sedate me. I will go mad. My m-mind is ruins and I am immobile. J-Just put me under until I can leave." 

Mycroft nodded slowly. "I suggested as much, but it's still dangerous to do so often. I'll ask Miller when he comes back. You did very well working through the last hallucination. We were all very impressed."

Sherlock clenched his fist and looked away, breathing slightly faster in irritation and hopelessness. "Y-Yes, bully for me. I m-managed to see what w-was directly in front of my face. Alert the media." 

He dug his nails into his palm and gently tested his restraints, looking at where they to the bed and working on sorting a way to get loose. 

"M-Make them s-s-sedate me." 

Mycroft shook his head. "You hallucinated and worked through it mentally. That is incredible and rare. It takes such willpower to work through things like you did. I'll ask him to sedate you, but you might want to be awake if John comes back."

The breath stilled in his lungs and his nails dug hard into his palm before Sherlock turned his eyes on his brother. He was quiet for nearly two minutes before he finally sucked in a sharp, audible breath. Burning pressure at the corners of his eyes preceded the blur of his vision as his focus danced over his brother's features. 

"H-Have I angered you," he whispered, all suggestion of defiance bled away from him, giving way to pained confusion. 

Mycroft shook his head. "No, no, I'm not angry with you. I'm sorry. You can choose your own company. I've nothing to do with it...I only thought...he brings you such comfort, Sherlock. I only thought you would want to see him. If you don't then I'll not ask him to come."

Sherlock shivered hard and swallowed against the nausea twisting his gut, causing his mouth water. His stomach was empty, he surely could not be close to sicking up. He couldn't be. He closed his eyes and tried to breathe, slow and steady through his mouth as a tear spilled over his lashes.

_I mean...I used to. I..._

_I love you. We'll still see each other._

Sherlock gagged then, closing his mouth as he exhaled on a sound of broken pain. Christ, it was over. He'd known it was over, but it truly...to hear from John himself...it...he was lost. John might visit him for a game of chess or Sunday tea...but he'd lost him. 

He'd lost him. 

His hand moved to cover his face, caught up by the goddamn tether at his wrist and he shouted his pain to the opposite wall, pinching his eyes shut and breathing too fast. 

"H-He used to," he managed, in grave danger of vomiting, "Oh g-g-god he _u-used to_." His hands began to violently shake and he nearly bit through his lip, desperately trying to calm down. 

"M-Must I e-e-endure losing him o-ver and over again? H-Have I n-not yet been punished e-enough?"

Mycroft's heart gave a painful twinge when Sherlock gagged and his resolution not to untie Sherlock vanished. 

"Here, let's get this off. I promise you are not being punished. I love you. You're not being punished. John will come back to you. Please, just give it time. Just give him time to recover." 

He fumbled with the clasp, then slowly moved Sherlock's arm up to his chest. "He still loves you."

Sherlock reached up and sank his hand into his hair, covering his face with his forearm and elbow. He pulled at the locks, soaked in grief and loss, the physical pain a shadow to the destruction of the only joy he'd felt in his adult life. John had been chemicals, yes, but not injected or synthesized. He was an infusion of oxytocin with a smile, dopamine with a laugh. He made Sherlock high with simple words; _That's brilliant. Simply incredible. Stubborn arse, you're fantastic._

And then, just like that, it was gone. 

_We'll see each other._

He could actively feel his heart breaking, and how there was anything left to break he had no idea. "I c-cannot endure this, My. It...I cannot-t b-breathe...he's _g-gone_...I..." he grit his teeth as he began to cry, Moran laughing in the background. Oh, how he'd gladly run to him, let the man lash him until his body failed. It would be a sweeter way to go than this. There was no logic to heartbreak, only pain that burned more horrifically than any medal could. 

Mycroft could feel his insides crumbling to dust as Sherlock broke down in such bitter agony. He wouldn't pretend to understand. No, Mycroft had carefully guarded himself against something like this ever happening, and now he wished Sherlock hadn't ever gotten attached to the army doctor. 

"He isn't gone," Mycroft said quietly. 

"I need you to trust me. Trust me when I say that I know for a fact that he will come back and you two will live together. Do you want him to hold you again? Because he will, and it won't hurt him to do so."

Sherlock shook his head as he struggled with the pitting, anxious grief twisting his gut. 

"It would hurt him. He's trying but h-he doesn't...h-have any desire to do so outside o-of guilt and human obligation. He w-will be happy with G-Greg," he closed his eyes and nodded, head throbbing. He just wanted to sleep until he could get up out of the bed and walk to a dealer, buy enough to stop his heart, find a ditch and have done with it. "I j-just want to g-go away." 

"I know what you want, Sherlock. But I am asking you to continue living. It seems dark and dismal, but you'll be alright." 

It sounded pathetic even to him, but it was all he could offer. 

"He will come back to you. He never hated you. From what I understand from the tapes, Moriarty wanted him to hate you, but was unsuccessful and ended up with fear. John does not hate you, and I believe he will come to love you as fully as he used to."

Sherlock tangled his fist in the blankets and squeezed as hard as he could, breathing very fast. Panic was seeping into the myriad of cracks in his defenses and he was in desperate need of help. 

"I d-don't know how to do th-this, My. I don't know h-h-how to do this. I don't know how. He is s-so afraid of m-m-me. He _endures_ and I f-f-feel like I'm taking a l-lash to him just by breathing and-" he grit his teeth and closed his eyes, at a complete loss. 

"Sherlock, what I suggest is you just relax and enjoy his company." 

Mycroft was willing to give Sherlock something to strive for, and perhaps if he moved the focus away from Sherlock and onto John, his panicked brother would comply. 

"He needs you. He needs to feel useful. It's not perfect, I know, but he needs it. If you would smile at him, act as though you enjoy his company, I'm sure it would help him greatly. In turn, he would visit more and start to enjoy his time with you. I know it's not what you want, but trust me, I've thought through this."

Sherlock had no idea how he was supposed to manage that. John meant fear and guilt, pain and grief, loss, regret. John embodied every failure and wrongdoing Sherlock had ever committed. To smile in the face of the man's fear? 

"W-w-would that not f-frighten him if I t-take joy in his s-s-suffering? He hates to b-be here. If I s-smile at him while he is s-so afraid...he already b-believes I wanted h-h-harm done...he r-r-retaliated and-" Sherlock's hand drifted up with the blanket clutched hard in his fingers, defensive and afraid. 

"I do not know h-how to enjoy his company a-any longer. I...n-not while he f-f-fears me so."   
"Smile and tell him you are glad he came to visit you. Tell him that you miss him, and that you appreciate his help. Make him feel like he has a purpose to live, Sherlock." 

Mycroft was somewhat hopeful, though he didn't dare let himself put anything on this new idea. 

"It won't be easy for you, and it won't be easy for him. He no longer believes you wanted harm done. He doesn't believe that you hurt him. He does not hate to be here. You can make him happy. Shouldn't you try?"

Sherlock dragged his hand up to his hair and nodded as he nearly bit through his lip. He pulled at his curls as he attempted to get a handle on his breathing, deeply hurting and floating in fear. "I...I...n-no more...no more surgery...please. N-no more o-operations. Done. I'm...I'm d-done." 

"Alright. I'll tell them that. Consider trying what I said about John, about helping him." Mycroft put his hand on Sherlock's shoulder and leaned in. "I love you, 'Lock. I love you."

Sherlock let go of his hair and reached abruptly for his brother, grabbing hold of him with a trembling hand and breathing too fast. "I-" he swallowed and pulled at him, starting to seriously tremble where he lay. 

"P-please help. I c-can't c-c-calm d-" he turned his face away and gagged, audibly dragging in a deep breath before whimpering in fear and dread. "H-help My I-" again his stomach spasmed on him. 

_I used to._

_What did you do to John Watson._

_Sherlock! Please! G-God please s-stop!_

He shuddered as his heart threw itself against his ribs, nearly making him black out as panic roared over him. "M-My, h-help" 

Mycroft texted Miller before moving closer to Sherlock and holding his head against his chest. "I know. It's okay. Remember where you are. You are safe and with Mycroft. John is safe. Nobody is hurting you." God, how long would it take before he didn't need to remind the man that he was safe?

"I kn-know...I d-d-don't unders-s-stand what's wr-wrong with m-me," Sherlock responded, too many thoughts speeding through his mind all at once. 

He clung to his brother, shaking terribly as his teeth chattered and his body ached. 

"I'm s-s-safe here and J-John is with G-Greg a-and...and...I k-killed Moriarty and M-M-Moran is in Cape T-Town and..." he gagged on choking nausea and pulled harshly at Mycroft, wanting desperately to get up and move, to pace or run or something, nearly claustrophobic with his immobility. 

Miller came into the room and made for the bed, looking over his patient. "You in pain, Sherlock?" He asked, not expecting him to be hurting after the large dose of painkiller he'd recently had. He looked to Mycroft in question.

"He's asked to be sedated," Mycroft explained and tried to soothe Sherlock by running his fingers through his hair until the disheveled curls had some direction. 

"He's having difficulty staying calm. Could you help him sleep for a little?" 

Miller looked over Sherlock and then to his monitors, humming for a moment as he thought. He was moving in the next minute, drawing up a heavy dose of anti-anxiety medication and injecting it into his line. 

"This will help calm you down, Sherlock. Just breathe. If you want to sleep, you should be able to." 

The effect was rapid. Tension bled out of Sherlock's limbs within three minutes and he melted, boneless, down against the bedding, letting Mycroft go. He stared across the room, unfocused and blank, slow tears sliding down his cheeks without any real feeling behind them. Miller kept back, watching him carefully. He spoke softly to Mycroft. 

"Another hallucination?"

Mycroft gave Miller a look of relief and relaxed with Sherlock. "He is grieved greatly at the loss of John. I believe he hears the voice of his tormentor in his mind, as he flinches often even with his eyes closed. It seems that being lucid is exhausting for him, or that it fades away quickly."

Miller nodded as he leaned back against the counter, watching Sherlock with his arms folded over his chest. 

"That makes sense. Sad as that is." 

Sherlock slowly licked his lip, blinking in a daze up at his brother. "M-Moran's-not 'ere," he slurred, giving him a stupid grin, teeth pink from where he'd bloodied himself. 

"This. This's 'ow sh-ld be w-en John vis-ts. Like this. This...'s good I c-n..." his brow knit and he huffed, "Shuddup Moran. Shuddup." 

Miller watched Sherlock carefully, unnerved at how easy and slightly manic his smile was. Sherlock reached back up with a heavy, sloppy hand and grabbed Mycroft at the shirtfront. "'e never shuts up. Never. Always laughing, r-right there," he cut his eyes to the corner and then back to Mycroft, "but 'e's n-not there. Is me. My h-head. Tell me I'm n-not mad." 

Mycroft was deeply unsettled by the inane and manic smile on Sherlock's face. 

"No...No, you're not mad. You're not mad. It's just...you're medicated and stressed. Perfectly normal. He'll go away eventually, and I'll keep you safe until he does and long after." 

Sherlock cracked a laugh at his brother and closed his eyes, shaking his head. "Alright brother," he whispered, a tear rolling down his cheek despite his smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for staying with us, your comments are always appreciated and motivating.


	10. Brushes and Birds

Mycroft looked nervously over to Miller. 

"I...I'm here for you, 'Lock. I'm right here." 

He hadn't eaten in hours, hadn't left the room except to go to the lav in at least 12, and was incredibly thirsty. He drank down the bottle of water he'd saved for Sherlock and hoped it would help his pounding headache. 

Miller shook his head and watched as Sherlock went very still and quiet. "It's just the medication. He's likely not wrong, if John is willing to come, now is going to be the easiest time, at least for Sherlock. You could step out and he'd likely not notice." 

Sherlock cracked a smile and licked at his bloody lip. "J-hn's not int-re-st-d." 

"Oh, hush, 'Lock. John is very interested." Mycroft didn't need any further persuasion and got out his phone. 

_Sherlock is heavily medicated and thinks it would be easier for him to see John like this._

Greg was in the lav when he got the message. They'd slept since they'd arrived, the longest stretch he and John had ever managed. It had been brilliant. He finished up, washing his hands and wondering what the best course of action would be here. If Sherlock was medicated, perhaps it would be easier to get in and out without too much angst. 

He walked back out into their room, speaking softly to John. "Want to knock out your ten minutes early today?"

John looked up and nodded. "Yeah, that's probably for the best." He felt good after another night's sleep. He'd been on a particularly lucky streak and hadn't had any reality shattering nightmares in days, allowing him to wake up feeling refreshed if not a bit groggy. 

"Did he ask for me, or is he panicking?" 

Greg shook his head, "I don't get the impression at all that he's panicking. I'm not sure if he asked for you or not." 

Sherlock reached out to his brother, dopy and sloppy. 

"Y-You don’t feel well, My. S-matter? Head. 'is head hurts. M-ller be doc an fix it. Go to sleep My you feel bad. 'm sorry. Th- hell did-you give me this 's...why not al-always this? This...this... 's great. F-fuck that s-stupid bastard 'n th- corner!” He glared at the place where he could see Moran standing. 

“I shot 's lover in the f-fuckin' face." He grinned, pink teeth and tearful, empty laughing. "N-No more s-ber Sherlock. Sherlock is not good s-sober. Only this." 

Mycroft wondered if this would frighten John off, and sincerely hoped that Sherlock would act properly. "Yes, you shot his lover in the face, and I'll shoot him in his. He isn't in the corner. If he is ever really here, I'll shoot him myself."

John climbed out of bed and pulled a jumper over his faded grey t-shirt. "Well, either way, I'll go help. If I go over ten minutes, don't say anything. Just..I'll look at you, and nod if I'm done with the time."

Greg nodded, understanding what John was asking. "He's apparently medicated, so...I don't really know how he is, just keep that in mind. Let's take your pills first, I'll follow you when you are ready." Truly he wanted to ask if John was sure, but he wasn't going to push it after the night last. 

Sherlock shook his head lazily and reached out, grabbing Mycroft's sleeve and pulling at it. "'M an ass 'n never say it but always see wh-n you're stressed. Y-r head hurts 'n you need things 'n I can't fix it an he's in Cape Town with 'is brandy an' h-s money an- you need...need...med...medicine an...an...s-something else an...'m sorry I k-keep 'urting you."

Mycroft shook his head and kissed Sherlock's temple. "No, you aren't hurting me. I promise. I'm just tired. Perhaps I need cake. Maybe that would help." Mycroft would readily give Sherlock ammunition to beat him down with if it got him talking lucidly. 

John took the pills gratefully and slowly walked down the hall. "Can I have a cane? It might help with this. I don't want to have to use one, but it might be for the best."

Greg offered his arm, nodding calmly. "Yeah, John, that's a good idea. I'll get you one today, that will help. Can I do anything to make this...easier? Or...I don't know. I want to help." Christ, he felt useless. He was walking John to a place that would hurt and he had no idea what to do about it, how to alleviate any of it. 

Sherlock shook his head, holding tight to Mycroft as he stared at him. "N-no y-re not even eating f-food. M-make you s-k if y-a ate...no...I'm ok...I'm ok Miller won' let me hert myself. Miller won' let me. Ju-just go t-ke care of yerself, My. You're h...herting 'n I can't fix it." 

Mycroft nodded and held him just a bit closer. "No, no, I won't leave you. I'll have food brought in once you're feeling a bit better. I hate eating when you can't."

John reached out and took Greg's hand."Yeah, you'll help by being there. It's easier when you're in a room. It's always easier. Things are better when I remember that you're there." He offered a small smile before opening the door to Sherlock's room. 

Sherlock was about to respond to his brother when the door opened and John walked in. He instantly smiled, exposing pinked teeth behind his mask. 

"J-John," he breathed, staring at him even as he gripped Mycroft as hard as he possibly could, "came back. D-didn' think y-d come back." He dropped back, closing his eyes as the uproar of panic tried to claw through the brilliant medicated calm. 

_Smile for him, Make him believe you enjoy his company and he might enjoy yours._

He looked back at John as a slow tear tracked down his cheek, still smiling, heart hammering against his ribs. 

"Is...is it nice out t-day? Sun 'r c-clouds?"

John could instantly tell something was wrong. Sherlock had always spoken quickly and clearly, his mind moving faster than most. He wasn't one to draw out words, or use improper grammar. No, something was wrong. 

Just medication, nothing else. 

"Its...Yeah, it's nice out. I think." John stepped just a bit closer and smiled at him. "You look...happy." 

_Drugged._

Sherlock watched John and sluggishly understood that he was doing this wrong. He tightened his grip harsher on his brother, ready to come out of his skin He abruptly began to hate the drug, where moments ago it had been a massive relief. It blocked what was left of his ability to think. There was too much at risk and he was ruining it. He bit down on the lines he'd opened up inside his cheek and savored the copper on his tongue. A minute later, he allowed himself to speak. 

"Yeah I...I n-needed ah bit of 'elp c-calming down is a bit...b-bit cl...claus...claus..." his brows knit as he struggled with the word, finally sighing and rolling his eyes in irritation, "scary n-not t' be able t' move. An' I see him. Hear 'im. So...M-Miller helped an' I'm...'m a bit...s-sorry, 's not a...not g-good is it? D-don' be cross w-with me J-John I...'m trying. 'S cheating...relying on d-drugs, i-isn' it?" 

He looked away then, ready for John to scold him, trying to get his damn head on properly. He would have liked to know how it was outside. Outside was better than this, even were there a blizzard on.

John walked over and pulled up the chair usually used for Mycroft. He plopped down and put his head on one hand. "No, it's fine.I get it. You get claustrophobic. It sucks being strapped down. I get it. I completely get it." 

The brother had scooted to the side a bit, not letting go of Sherlock but giving him space to speak with the one who _truly_ comforted him. 

"I hear them too, or see them sometimes. Sometimes the room looks like the other rooms and it's bad. But we're okay now." He reached out and put his hand on Sherlock's. "See?"

Sherlock looked down at his hand and smiled, likely bruising Mycroft with the force of his grip. "Y-yeah we...we're k...were o..ok..." He drew in as deep of a breath as he could. 

_Look like you enjoy his company._

"Wh-wha-do y-you an' Greg do? M-My said you g-go ou-side sometimes. That...s-sounds nice. I m-miss ou-side."

"We play rummy, and we watch telly, and we practice drinking water, and other stuff." John decided to leave out the fact that they spent most of their time curled up in bed together or embracing in one way or another. 

"I'll bring you outside sometime, once you're able. You can see the tree. I think there's going to be a nest there, or at least I'm hoping."

Sherlock smiled at John as the hand he had on Mycroft -thankfully out of John's view- began to tremble. 

"A-are you still 'mpossible to best a-at the game?" He asked with an honest smile, knowing that he himself was famous for his excuses to get out of playing a hand against John. Really, the only game he'd take the man on with was chess, and even then John was such an unusual and unpredictable player that he'd often have to apply himself to win. 

He looked up at Greg as the man huffed a laugh, genuinely pleased. Sherlock took that as a confirmation.

"Y-yes then, y- are. Good. 'S good. I c-can't always be the one good at all the things." 

Sherlock's heart twisted then. The quip would have applied before all of this, but now there was no more Sherlock and John. There was no one else. It was soon to just be Sherlock, with _visits_ from John and Greg. His fingers flexed on Mycroft's forearm as the grief tore through him and he looked back at John, still smiling, another lazy tear tracking down his cheek. "

Y-you g-give him a run for his m-money I'm s-sure," he whispered, trying to keep the mood light as his spirits tanked. 

"Oh, Greg never stands a chance!" 

This was what John had missed. This was what he could fondly remember. The banter and the endless quips were as effective as any kind words from Sherlock, and he drank them in. 

"I'd play with you sometime, but I'm sure there would be some national emergency so you couldn't. Perhaps a head exploded or someone's written in code on the walls. You'd find some way out of it."

For a moment, he sounded like himself. Not his current, ruined self, but his old, light hearted self. 

"You always do. And you can't always be the one good at all the things, but that never kept you from trying."

Sherlock cracked a laugh as John listed excuses as absurd as the ones he used to use as his guts did something odd at the sound of John's old and familiar voice. It was almost like hearing a recording of the man from _before_ , which was wonderful and utterly terrifying. Another tear crashed into the first, speeding down the well worn saline path over his cheek, hugging the mask, dripping off the edge of his jaw into his hair. He never let up on his grip as he clung to his brother. 

"Th-there are precious few e-experts 'n the exploding cranium an' w-wall code f-fields. Someone m-must heed the call. We c-cannot all en-enjoy such frivolity, J-John," he rejoined in a haughty, serious tone he often adopted when attempting to be above it all. He ended with a warm, pinked smile, his heart slamming against the wall of his chest. Dear _god_ how he missed John so terribly it made his teeth ache. 

There it was. That little smile after something so terribly bigoted that John always loved. It was a lovely way of confirming to each other that it was all in good sport. God, he'd missed that. 

John stopped then, and concentrated. He _had_ missed that. Would that count to Greg as wanting to be around him? "Oh, yes. But if you're going to make up a story or use the Yard as your 'mummy said I can't play' card, at least tell Greg to play along."

John had believed him the first time he'd used an excuse. Sherlock going off on a sudden case wasn't all that unheard of. It was only later when he had casually asked about it to Greg at a pub that light was cast on the falsehood. 

Sherlock looked up to Greg, smiling softly then as he spoke to John with his eyes on the DI. 

"Oh, but then how w-would you know how highly I th-thought of your skills?" 

He'd not at all forgotten to cover his tracks. He was giving John a complement in the safest way that he knew how. If John knew that Sherlock had fabricated a story to get out of playing, it would be because he knew he could not best John. 

Sherlock was a notoriously bad loser. "I c-can only demonstrate my b-brilliant d-decorum where losing is concerned s-so many times." 

He dropped his eyes back to John and gave him a slow, warm wink, unintentionally losing another tear as he did so, his arm shaking up to his elbow. He hardly dared to breathe, wondering if this was where John got up and left in disgust. 

John tilted his head to the side and scooted forward. He reached out tentative arms and laid one across his stomach, which was all he could reach with Mycroft still on the edge of the bed, and the other he put on Sherlock's chest. "You were a sore looser. Like a four year old." John grinned up at him and his eyes wrinkled around the edges as they always had. 

"You're crying. I'm sorry. Did I do anything wrong?" John had genuine concern on his face and he propped his chin on the edge of Sherlock's bed. 

Sherlock was riveted by John's familiar expression, utterly shocked that John leaned in and not away. 

"I don't kn-know why I k-keep on with the tears. Th-they just happen," he responded honestly. He was drenched in grief and loss, this visit a beautiful reminder of how things had been, of the man he'd lost, of the potential Sherlock's own fear and insecurity had snuffed out. It was also the most comfort he'd felt since John walked out the front door of Baker Street, leaving Sherlock completely unable to breathe on the landing. 

"'M not accustomed t- losing. To b-be good at something requires p-practice, perhaps an explanation to your o-own grace." He again smiled at John, hardly daring to inhale deep enough to speak for fear of reminding John that he was touching Sherlock, making him withdraw. 

John gave a small, hesitant nod. 

"I hurt sometimes without knowing why. Sometimes, I'll look down and expect blood, but it's just a scar. It's an old hurt, but it can feel new. I don't know. It's strange." He dropped his head so his ear was down on the fabric and he could look up at Sherlock. 

"But it gets easier. Before, when you first found me, I was in too much pain to think. But now that I'm not in pain, things are better. Things will get better, Sherlock. Remember that, okay?" 

His voice had dropped a bit as if he were sleepy, but he didn't feel like resting. 

"You remember that, and someday you'll play rummy with me and I'll kick your sorry ass excuses or no excuses."

Sherlock's grip eased on Mycroft somewhat, honestly soothed by John's assurances. He wanted terribly to reach out for John and bury his face in the crook of his neck, heart squeezing at the very idea of it. There was a time when John felt so deeply for him that he'd put a bullet through a heart. Sherlock had always, always been safe when in the company of John Watson. 

"Okay," he breathed, nodding to John, staring at his eyes, "I'll r-member an' you can w-wipe the floor with me." 

John kept eye contact with Sherlock for longer than he ever had in life before the incident. 

"I look forward to it." 

The statement, while innocent, normal, and seemingly mundane, contained great weight from him as it was spoken honestly. John _honestly_ was looking forward to something, and not just anything, he was looking forward to being with Sherlock. Even with his torment and current fear, he was able to see that there was the possibility that he might not always be afraid.

Greg blinked up at the ceiling as a heavy weight eased its weight against his chest and he was able to breathe just a little bit easier. This was a breakthrough of proportions he'd never expected. When he had himself under better control, he looked back down to Sherlock and John, watching with intense focus. 

Sherlock closed his eyes then, biting hard at his lips to keep himself controlled. That was more than he'd...this was all, in his mind, a prolonged, agonizingly drawn out goodbye. Penance. The end of this had always been watching John walk away for good. 

But John wanted to see him again. _Wanted_ to. 

He looked back at him, smiling as his vision blurred terribly. Oh, it was going to _hurt_ not to live with John, but perhaps if he knew he'd at least visit from time to time, he could tolerate the loneliness between. 

John could feel his composure slipping when he began to question why he was helping _him_. The pronoun used so disdainfully instead of Sherlock's name within John's mind always seemed to be a precursor for things going downhill. 

He gave Sherlock one last, long look and withdrew. It had to have been ten minutes by now. 

Not wanting Sherlock to take it the wrong way, John walked around to the other side where Mycroft was not and kissed the top of Sherlock's head as a mother would a sickly child. 

"I'll come back tomorrow, okay? If you need me, just call."

Panic tore through Sherlock's chest as John got up to leave. He nodded, looking up at John and then flicking his eyes away, nearly weeping then and there at the loss of the first taste of peace he'd had in so long he'd forgotten what it could even be like. 

He'd just been starting to relax and then John's eyes had shifted, shuttering him out, back to the same distant expression John had looked at him with since this all began. Oh god it _hurt_. 

He closed his eyes as John kissed his forehead, trying to remember how to breathe. He heard Greg walk over and lost track of time as he listened to the sound of their feet shuffling towards the door of his room. Sherlock lost grip of the child-like panic as he heard the handle turn, his eyes flying open, calling out suddenly. 

"J-John." 

As soon as he'd called John's name, shame ripped through his chest and he tried to cover, "Th-thank you for c-coming t- see me." 

John seemed to stick in the doorway, and he pulled Greg to him for mental stability. 

"I...Yeah, no problem. Anytime, Sherlock." 

He didn't want to leave the man, but he also didn't want to hurt him by staying. He couldn't very well ask him to choose, so he stayed exactly where he was, one hand already tangled in Greg's shirt. 

"I...I'm sorry I've got to go. I promise I'll come back. I promise you, okay?"

Sherlock's heart was galloping in his chest as he was suddenly deeply afraid to be without John again after even just that tiny taste of their former relationship. 

_Always the addict, Sherlock._

It was so desperately frightening and lonely without him, and he was already greedy for the calm of it. Sherlock nodded at John and held his breath as he watched them walk away, Greg quietly shutting the door behind them. 

His expression crumbled the moment the latch clicked, heaving in a deep breath just as tears began to flow in earnest. 

John shuffled away silently and with an overwhelming sense of guilt. As soon as the door shut he fell apart. Down to the ground he slid against the wall and covered his shamed face with his hands. An irritated, angry growl forced it's way out of clenched teeth and he slammed his fists down on the tile floor. 

"I hurt him by leaving! I hurt him! I thought...is it better for me to leave him while I am able to think, or to stay until I'm raving and terrified?" 

John looked up to Greg. "Tell me. Tell me which one would hurt him less. Because-" John heard Sherlock's deep breath and his insides clenched. "Because _that_ is not him feeling better because I visited!"

Greg shook his head, easing down to crouch in front of John, deeply glad the walls were thick. 

"You made him smile, you even got a laugh. You helped. You did very well. Tomorrow he'll see that you aren't gone forever."

John slouched against the door and dug his nails into his arms on each side. "I...can I make you happy today?" John was practically begging, eyes wide and full of tears. _Worthless. Stupid. Broken._

_No, John, you still have use to me. Even though I'm dead, they're all still being hurt. Who do I have to thank for carrying on my work but you?_

Greg nodded swiftly, reaching out and pulling John's hands away so that he could wrap him into a hug. "Yes, and you already have. I'm...that was incredible. He's ok, John. He's ok. Let's go back to your room, can you walk?"

John's mind began to crumble as his own worthlessness was thrown in his face. Whatever negative emotion was plaguing John the most was generally the one Moriarty picked upon and ran with in his mind. 

_Poor Sherlock will cry when you finally leave. Greg too. They'll not last very long though, so don't worry about that. I wonder how Sherlock will go. Probably the needle. Can you see him? Pale face, glassy eyes, body going from warm, to cold and limp, then stiff? That's what you want, isn't it? You're just helping him along._

Greg frowned in worry and pulled John into his arms, lifting him up and shaking his head at security that came to help. He nuzzed against the side of John's head as he carried him to his room, whispering gentle encouragement. 

"Stay with me. Stay with me, John," he repeated again and again, recognizing him slipping.

_Worthless! Stupid! Broken!_

John flinched and cried out as if he had been hit by an unsuspected blow. His eyes were closed tightly and his muscles contracted, making his main sensory stimulation the voices in his mind and the mint under his nose. "M trying," he stammered to Greg. 

"Hurts. Hurting me."

Greg swore under his breath and moved faster, "I'm sorry, I'm sorry I don't mean to hurt you, just another moment," he said as calmly as he could, all but kicking John's door open so that he could very gently ease him down to the bed. He pulled his hands away swiftly, scared that he'd done harm. 

"I'm sorry, I wasn't trying to hurt you. Here...here take," he grabbed John's pain medication and tipped it into his hand, offering the tablets, "take your medicine it will help. I'm sorry. Please, will you look at me?" 

John shook his head and took the pills with shaking hands. "No, y-your not hurting m-me," he managed to correct before gritting his teeth and holding his hands over his ears and pressing with all his might. "Not real...not real..." He tried to tell himself that the voices weren't real, but to John, the things that were being said were true regardless. 

_And Greg will cry. You've made him cry so much. Look at how you're hurting him. Go on, look at his despair._

John obeyed the voice in his mind like a programmable robot and glanced at Greg's face. "M'sorry. So s-sorry."

Greg shook his head, keeping directly in front of John. He cupped John's face between his palms and honestly smiled at him. 

"My god, John, today was incredible. You've been incredible, and it's still just the morning. You already managed something I wasn't expecting," as he explained, thinking back on John's banter with Sherlock, the words ' _I'm looking forward to it,_ " his expression naturally reflected his pride, as he was practically bursting with it. 

John had to leave, but he'd done so calmly even in the wake of Sherlock's obvious panic, and he'd spoken clearly and calmly despite it being so difficult that he fell apart seconds later, though only when it was safe to do so.

"John you did so well. I'm so proud of you. You're _still_ doing so well. Stay with me, I'm...god I'm proud of you." He leaned in and pressed a warm, proud kiss to John's forehead. 

Greg's voice and Moriarty's voice were contending for attention in John's mind. He wanted to listen to Greg, but Moriarty's voice sounded dangerous and edgy now, which generally meant he needed to pay attention and do well to avoid punishment. John managed to get his eyes open once more and looked at Greg. 

"Proud? I-"

_He isn't proud! He's disgusted with you! He just wants to shut you up so you don't start screaming again!_

John whimpered and the small happiness he had gained at Greg's expression fizzled and died. 

"Proud," he repeated to himself, "n-not d-disg-gust-ted-"

Greg frowned at John's repetition. 

"Hey...John, no, not disgusted. God no, why-" it took him a moment to remember that John often heard Moriarty. 

"Oi! Is he talking in your head?" Greg asked in that tone of voice that was protectively angry. 

"He doesn't get to talk to you anymore, John! Keep your eyes on me. You listen to _me_ ," he dropped his hands to John's shoulders and squeezed. "You are wonderful, and you did amazingly well today. Amazingly well. I _love you_ and I'm _proud of you_. Tell me that, John. Tell me what I just said." 

He was speaking loud and clear, wanting his voice to drown out John's own mind. 

John held his head in his hands and rocked himself rapidly. "H-he is saying things tha-at a-are t-true-"

_WORTHLESS!_

John flinched heavily and tried to repeat Greg's words. "You l-love me and-"

_WEAK!_

"And y-you-you're p-"

_STUPID!_

"Y-you're p-proud of m-"

_JUST DIE!_

John cried out and put his hands over his face.   
The last place in the world Greg wanted John was in his own head with whatever was tormenting him. Greg reached out, Sherlock completely forgotten and his entire focus on helping John through this, taking John's hands from his face. 

"That's right, I love you and I'm proud of you. Eyes on me, John, eyes on me." 

He shifted so it was easier for John to see him, carefully keeping John's hands from covering his face. Together they rocked, Greg following John's pace as he sat as close as he could get. 

"I love you. I am so proud. Stay with me."

John struggled against it. He was in a dark room with his thoughts and all other sensory information was blocked out. All he knew were these words. They were all that existed. He was trying desperately to guard against them, and could spare no thought about leaving the blackness of the room in an attempt to resurface. 

John was pinned on his back, eyes squeezed shut and limbs drawn in to protect himself. The words rained down on him like blows from a boxer and he shuddered against them. He knew that somewhere outside this black room Greg was speaking to him, but he was so alone in his own mind that he couldn't even lift his eyelids to see. John cried out inside his mind for it to stop, but was externally silent save the occasional whimper. 

"LEAVE ME ALONE!" John cried and lifted his head. The blackness of the room was overwhelming and he dared not open his eyes to see it. 

"STOP IT! _STOP IT!_ " John ripped at his hair in this dark room and struggled to ignore the voices. 

Greg instantly took his hands off of John, shocked hard by his reaction. He nearly fell in his effort to give John space, not understanding what he'd done to make him shout like that. 

"John...John I..." he said quietly as he settled down away from John on the bed, towards the foot, his own eyes wide and heart slamming against his ribs. Perhaps allowing John to find his purpose through Sherlock would have to stop. Greg had not seen John like this in quite some time. 

"Please, John...you're okay! Nothing happened, it was a good visit! John, please." 

John began to shout back at the voices in a desperate attempt to quiet them. 

_USELESS!_

"Stop it!" 

_PITIFUL!_

"Leave me alone!"

_YOU'RE A BURDEN TO EVERYONE!_

"STOP IT! STOP!"

_JUST FUCKING KILL YOURSELF!_

"NO!" John was openly weeping and screaming into his knees as he rocked. 

 

"NO! NO! GO AWAY!"

Greg stared, wide-eyed and helpless as John struggled, flinching every time he shouted. His hands were tied. John had made him promise he'd not hold him down or sedate him, and Greg could not tell what John was trying to get away from. 

He was unsure if John wanted him anywhere close. 

So, instead of reaching for John like he wanted to, Greg simply sat there, repeating that he loved him, that he was going to protect him, that John was safe, all loud enough that he hoped John could hear. Christ, this was a much more disturbing reaction to a visit with Sherlock than Greg had imagined.

John was sweating and his limbs shook. He screamed at Moriarty until his voice was raw and he grew desperate and pleading instead of stubborn and obstinate, just as he had done throughout his torment. 

_What are you waiting for? KILL YOURSELF, you FUCKING WORTHLESS SHIT!_

It had been Moran then, adding his angry voice beside Moriarty's calm one. 

"N-no, please! PLEASE!" John was in his dark room with his hands over his ears. Though he hadn't opened his mind to see the room, he knew it would be black. He just knew.

It took him nearly an hour to battle it down, to get to the point where e could open his eyes and see the inside of the room he was surely captured in that was surely going to be black. When he was met not with oppression and darkness, but Greg instead, John burst into tears and lunged into his lap. 

"G-G-Greg, y-you c-came f-for m-m-me!"

Greg was sick with grief and worry by the time John buried himself in his lap. He wrapped his arms tight around John, hardly breathing, utterly terrified by what he'd seen over the last hour. Jesus, John had just been _gone_. Completely unreachable in his own head. Greg held him tight and bundled him up in his lap, burying his face in the crook of John's neck just for a moment before sitting upright with Greg affixed to his chest. 

"I'm right here. I love you," he repeated again and again. 

He'd texted Paul but asked that Paul not come in, scared that it would upset John. Greg was shaking, but nowhere as terribly as John was. "You're safe, John. You're safe. I'm right here." 

John wept openly and went completely limp in Greg's arms from exhaustion. It had been so terribly difficult to claw his way back up when everything in his mind had tried to beat him into submission. 

His breath stopped for a few seconds, held in his tight chest, then left him in a rush. A few attempts at communicating further were cut off by sheer exhaustion and he shuddered in Greg's lap, the very act of crying and breathing so difficult and exhausting that it forced him to weep harder. He was gasping for breath in shallow takes, eyes fixed straight ahead and unfocused. He didn't close them, though. That would mean going back into the dark room. 

After a while he spoke quietly, waiting for each natural exhale to give his words breath. 

"I'm sorry...I tried to...tell you...was hurting...Moriarty..."

Greg was wrapped tight around John, trying to protect him from the torment in his mind with the force of his grip, rocking John and grieving with him. John's cries were heart rending and he wanted nothing more than to help ease them. 

"Just breathe, John. Breathe," he said gently, his voice tight with narrowly constrained emotion. 

"I've got you now, okay? You're not alone, I've got you. Breathe for me. It's alright, I've got you." He had no idea how he could have better helped in that situation, having lost John entirely like that. He was ready to shred the calendar, tell John Sherlock had died, and run him away from here as though the pain in his mind would not follow. 

John dropped almost immediately into an exhausted sleep, but woke just a few moments later with his eyes as wide as they would go. With his eyes shut, he was back in that dark room once more. 

"Room!" He stammered, "Room 's bad.... Can't... don't want to.... Greg, I don't want to." 

He made an effort to move more fully into Greg's lap, but the hour long state of physical tension left him not only weak, but terribly sore already. He whimpered at his inability and looked up at Greg pleadingly. 

"Don't want to... They'll say things...Don't want...to go..."

Greg pulled John as close to him as he could and then eased them to lie down. He still had John's pain pills locked in his fist and he handed them over. 

"Take these so you're not hurting. I've got you," he instructed as he wrapped them up in the blankets. 

"You keep paying attention to how your body feels with your eyes closed. There was no warmth there, right? No heartbeat outside your own? Listen to mine. Feel the blankets. Hold my hand. You're safe," he explained as he pulled John's head down to rest over his heart, bundling John as close to him as he could, their fingers laced together. 

"You're safe."

After taking the pills, John opened up his senses and tried to lock himself into reality by expanding his phaneron. He felt the blankets, Greg's warmth, and his own clothes. He could smell Greg and a tiny bit of the mint that hadn't yet been rubbed off. He could see Greg and the room with his wide eyes. He could hear Greg's heart thumping along with his own. 

"M'here...no dark room..." He turned his face up to Greg and nuzzled on his shoulder in a gesture that showed how much he needed the affection to keep himself from slipping. 

Greg smiled at John and began to trail his fingers over the man, threading through his hair, which he noticed now had fine streaks of silver shot through it much like his own. His hand trailed down the back of John's neck, along his arm, following over his back and then returning, a lazy pattern of soft touch in hopes of helping John.   
"I'm still so proud of you," he whispered softly, wanting John to drift off to sleep, "I love you. I'm so proud." 

John tried desperately to keep himself awake, but the light touches soothed his burned mind and quieted his terror. "Okay...I love you...I love you...Thank you..." He closed his eyes and focused on the tactile instead of the darkness of his own mind. 

"Don't leave me, love. Don't leave." 

Greg smiled fondly at the endearment and nuzzled down along John's face. "Never," he whispered back in assurance, meaning it with his whole heart. 

\---------

 

Sherlock was in a dizzying spiral of fear and grief as he continued to stare at the door where John had left, sobbing into Mycroft's chest as he shook apart. 

"He...he...f-for just a...moment he...he..." he could not draw a deep enough breath to carry on spreading, already physically tired from how hard he'd been clutching his brother while speaking with John.

Mycroft smoothed Sherlock's hair and helped him move his arms to a restful position where he could still he on. 

"You did so well, Sherlock. I'm sure you helped him very much. He's likely pleased with himself for helping you." 

Sherlock wept against his brother as his heart broke, mentally watching the moment where John's eyes shuttered him out, shoving him away. God, he'd felt so _calm_ just moments before, when John smiled at him and seemed to want him back. 

How had he allowed himself to believe John would ever want him back? 

His mind teased him with the folly of _hope_ and he shouted into the material just over Mycroft's heart, the sound fading down into nothing more than crushed tears. 

Sherlock had looked so happy, even if it was only for a moment. He had looked calm and peaceful with John and they even teased each other. Mycroft wanted to either keep John away, or tether him to the room. The leaving was clearly destroying Sherlock, and pulling at Mycroft's heart with it. But no, this was the way it would have to be. Mycroft pet his brother's hair and rocked him gently as he cried.

Sherlock alternated between broken sobbing and silent, defeated staring. He kept his fist tight in Mycroft's clothes, his grip occasionally going very tight and shaking before relaxing. When he spoke, his voice was wrecked, completely reflecting how deeply his heart was aching. 

"I c-cannot...can-n-not endure...h-how many more times do..." he shivered from the top of his head to his toes and groaned, head throbbing and nausea so constant he could feel the burn of it at the back of his nose, "wh-when will it be...be en-enough?"

Mycroft alternated between silence and soft words. He didn't expect anything to get through, but decided that some light background affirmations couldn't harm his brother.  
Sherlock pulled at Mycroft, frightened by his brother's lack of response to his question. 

"I t-tried! I tried! H-how m-m-many more t-times...please My, I tr-" his throat closed off and he nearly choked, "I did t-try I sw-swear I-" he began to pull back slowly, slipping right back to the edge of panic where he'd been when he watched John walking away from him. 

Mycroft didn't have an answer. He didn't know how long it would take, or how long Sherlock would want it to take. 

"It shouldn't be long before he enjoys your company. You did so well today, Sherlock. You helped him so much. You were so very helpful today." 

Sherlock drew his hand to his own chest protectively, closing his eyes as he began once again to shake. Oh, this...this was beyond what he could handle. Mind games while his mind was in ruins. Why they were using John like this, he had no idea. 

"A-are you...h-h-have I done ss-s-something? I'll...I'm-m s-sorry, I d-d-don't understand..." he grit his teeth, breathing too fast in his fear. He'd let go of his hope where John was concerned far before he'd walked open-armed to Moran. The moment he'd accepted the spark of it again, John shuttered him out, turned his back, and ripped away the peace he'd given as surely as if he'd finally offered Sherlock a warm blanket in the cold, only to tear it away the moment the heat began to seep into his bones, leaving him freezing and sensitive once again. 

Mycroft shook his head and kissed Sherlock's temple. "No. Nobody is angry with you. I am not angry with you and you've done nothing wrong. I love you. I won't just let you be hurt. Could you tell me what it feels like when John is with you? Is it a good thing, or a bad thing?"

Sherlock reached up and tangled his hand in his hair, shaking hard enough that his teeth chattered together when he wasn't clenching his jaw. He began to speak the moment he was asked in hopes that it would help protect him. 

"I...i-it...b-bad at first...s-s-stressful he...so easy to m-m-make a mistake and th-then..." he whimpered in loss and defeat, loud and childlike, sobbing once again before pressing on, "he'd s-s-said...he w-w-wanted… _wanted_...t-to see me ag-" Sherlock stopped abruptly, stomach heaving hard enough that he had to fight not to sick up then and there, gagging and breathing harsh thought his teeth. "he… _hope_ and then...g-god his face when h-h-he left and- he _left me... he left me!_ He _left me!_ "

Oh, it had been crushing to know that John could see his panic, could hear how desperately Sherlock had needed him, and he'd shown his back anyhow. Sherlock was not currently capable of understanding the complex psychological battle John was in, and in that moment, it had just been the man he loved, the man he'd _failed_ , turning and leaving him behind.

"No, no," Mycroft said with genuine pain in his voice, "No, he didn't leave you. John didn't just leave you. He is going through some serious problems within his own mind, and it is difficult for him to speak clearly. You help him, Sherlock, I swear. You are helping him so much by giving him a purpose. I love you, and I am so proud of you. Please, _please_ believe me when I say that John Watson loves you and will be coming back."

"I c-c-called f-for him an-and," Sherlock pinched his eyes closed as gold spots lit up along his vision like fireflies.   
"I sm-smiled like you s-s-said and I..." he'd likely bruised Mycroft with how hard he'd been holding on to him while forcing himself to stay calm and easy with John, even while drugged. It had been an exhausting marathon. He'd believed he'd seen the finish line, never having expected to ever even catch sight of it, and then John had bantered with him and _lied_ , telling Sherlock he'd be looking forward to a visit. John had only allowed him the lie for a few seconds before returning to his new, true state where Sherlock was unwelcome. Sherlock had thought he'd won, only to find he'd never been in the race at all. John was punishing him still, and Sherlock was oblivious to when that would be over.

"How m-m-many more t-t-times is he g-going to want-" he stopped speaking as his chest flailed in a desperate bid for air, crying out in the agony of heartbreak, "want to punish me f-for...g-god it would be more m-merciful if he'd j-j-just beat me and h-ave d-done!" 

Mycroft saw his mistake and let out a pained groan. 

"No, Sherlock, nobody's punishing you. I was just trying to help you. I promise. I didn't mean to subject you to anything you didn't want to do. I just thought...You were happy. Can you remember that? Remember how it felt when he held you?" 

Mycroft grasped at straws to find the correct answer to his problem. 

Sherlock pinched his eyes closed then, breaking down hard. Why his brother wanted to grind acid into his wounds was beyond him. Recalling how brilliant it had been while John was pretending to love him was agonizing, just another reminder of the staggering weight of what he’d lost. 

He nodded, trying his best to communicate. It took several long minutes to manage enough control to speak. 

"I- _why? WHY b-brother_?" he was hiccuping in an attempt for air, his chest on fire as his lungs worked, irritating the tube in his side, driving his panic and fear up to new heights. All he wanted in the world was the feeling he'd had when John held him and he'd had it torn away, lost now in his mind for good. It would have been better never to have known peace again than to be teased so viciously with it. 

_Shit! Wrong thing again._

Mycroft chastised himself once more for making the wrong move and categorize it for further use. "Anything you want. Do you want water? Something to eat? I can get you painkillers. More blankets. Music. Tell me how I can help you. What can I do?"

The lack of questioning and offers of help served to calm Sherlock down. His brother was trying to help. He was trying to help. No one was trying to hurt him. He let go of his hair and grabbed hold of Mycroft again, tucking his face against Mycroft's shirt. 

Nearly fifteen minutes later, worn down to nothing and exhausted, he whispered pathetically into the heated air between Mycroft's chest and his own face, "C-can I have something f-for pain? Maybe s-some water a-and something to w-watch? I...p-p-please don't m-make me...make me...I don't kn-know how to be more s-s-sorry for what I did to h-h-him, My...I...a-any other w-way for him to p-punish me...I can't t-take the mind games r-right now. I w-won't fight him I-" he dragged in a deep, anguished breath, "I d-destroyed something beautiful an-an-and I never knew I e-even had it until..." 

Mycroft breathed a heavy sigh of relief and kissed Sherlock's forehead.   
"You can have some water. I'll get if for you. And maybe you can watch telly. Are there any programs you want?" He reached back for his phone and texted Miller what was happening and his request to be delegated further. 

"Sherlock, you are very brave. You didn't destroy anything. You can have anything you want. I've called in a painkiller."

There was exactly nothing that Sherlock wanted to watch. He only knew that people often turned on their tellys instead of going into their minds as a means to distract themselves and he could not read so it was the best he could think of. 

"P-please tell him. Please. I...h-h-e doesn't understand how s-s-rry I am and...I...p-please protect m-m-me brother please I c-cannot guard my own mind and-" tears slid down his face as he clung to Mycroft. 

Miller came in quietly with a painkiller already drawn up, slipping it into Sherlock's line without Sherlock's notice. He tapped his watch and mouthed _ten minutes_ for the other requests to be filled, handing Mycroft two bottles of water before walking back out. 

Mycroft took the small attached remote and slowly moved the head of Sherlock's bed up a bit, giving him time to adjust to the lashings on his back. "Here, 'Lock, I'll help you." He reached for a little plastic cup and filled it half way.

"I'll tell John that you are sorry and tell him that he should relax."

Sherlock grabbed at his brother, shaking his head, eyes wide. 

"No, _no_ that-" he grit his teeth and shook his head again, tugging at Mycroft. "D-don't _ever_ t-tell him to r-r-relax not...not f-f-f-for the rest of his l-life you d-don't say that word to him My, _never ever_. No. He- god no don't t-tell him-" he shuddered hard and tried to draw his legs together despite the restraints and the medical devices. 

_Relax, Sherlock. Jesus haven't you learned it hurts worse when you try to keep me out? You can't keep me out. I get to do what I want. I own you, Sherlock, you are just a tool for my amusement. Fucking relax, or I'm going to burn you while I do this._

Sherlock let go of his brother and clapped his hand over his ear, hiding his face under his elbow. "D-don't t-t-tell h-him-m that!" 

"I won't tell him to relax. I won't. I promise. I promise. It's okay. I didn't mean to." Mycroft swore at himself and texted Greg quickly, just as a small reminder. 

_The word 'relax' might trigger John. It triggers something in Sherlock, though I don't want to speculate what._

He added it to his own memory bank of things he should not say to Sherlock and held him tight. "It's okay. It's alright. I've got you. I've got you."

Sherlock nodded and took a few minutes to try and calm his breathing. He remembered the water, far beyond thirsty, needing some sort of touchstone to remind himself that he had a tiny bit of control. He could ask for things at the least.   
"Water, can I- can I have- please can- water is that? Is that a th-thing I c-c-can have?" 

He shifted painfully on the bed despite the narcotic in his veins, his back tender and overly tight, looking to the blank screen. John watched shows about..."S-space they sometimes wathc...he sh-showed me about...s-stars and..." he gagged quite suddenly, trembling hand going to his mouth as he whined to his big brother, utterly overwhelmed with the constant reality of how much he’d lost. John had been his only friend, and he would never, ever have anything like that again. As far as Sherlock was concerned, the whole of his life was over, and this was just a period of suffering he had to endure to pacify those that hated him. 

"I d-don't f-f-ff-feel well." 

"Yes, we have programs on space. We have those." Mycroft had a spark of hope. Perhaps John and Sherlock could watch one of the documentaries together. "Here, sit up a bit more." He raised the bed just a few degrees and handed Sherlock the little cup. 

"Slowly, Sherlock. Please, go slowly. I'll call for the space show. It's okay."

Sherlock managed to spill half of the cup on himself as he took it in his shaking hand, sobbing as he brought his fingers to his lips, desperately sucking the water off his fingers and the side of his stitched hand. "S-s-sorry," he moaned, watching the rest of what he'd spilled soak into the bedding, "'m s-s-sorry I...I'm ss-s-s-rry please," he whispered before tossing the entire rest of it down in a rush as though afraid it would be taken from him. 

He cried as he swallowed the last of it, pinching his eyes closed and bringing his fingers back to his lips, sucking on the tips of his fingers as he had learned to do when so thirsty he could hardly breathe, an odd but useful way to trick his mind into a bit of relief. 

Greg texted Mycroft back after a few minutes. 

_I don't think we need too much imagination for that one. It's never set John off before, I don't think it's one of his triggers. Though Moran was a bit more...repetitive with Sherlock. How is he?_

Mycroft gently took the cup and refilled it with water. Slowly and with a steady hand, Mycroft helped Sherlock bring it to his lips. 

"You can have as much water as you want. You don't need to ever be sorry about anything. It's okay. You're alright." 

_That is good to know. Sherlock is greatly distressed. I've been telling him that he is helping John by letting him visit. It isn't much, and I'm not sure I'll continue, but I need something, just one reason, to give him to stay alive._

Sherlock wept in relief as water was once again given, cold and clean, his brother helping him to hold it. He drank and drank, suddenly desperate for hydration and the cool relief on the abused insides of his mouth and sore, swollen throat. Greg's text hardly distracted him from the goal of getting as much down as fast as he could. 

_In that battle, Mycroft, we are together. John fell apart on me. We have a long road ahead. I am sorry Sherlock is hurting, John passed out._

Sherlock spoke then as his stomach clenched around the shock of water. "D-don't leave me," he begged, the plea clear in his tone, "p-please, I n-need you. I n-n-need...p-p-please you g-give me water and m-medicine and...p-please d-don't leave god, please don't leave me too. Oh p-please don't l-leave me too!" 

"No, Sherlock, I'll never leave you. I'll not ever _ever_ leave you. I promise." Mycroft helped him with another cup of water and once more kept it steady. He remarked the terrible tragedy it was to be so desperate for something as simple and obvious as a cup of water. 

"You're not going to be alone. I'll always be here to give you water. I'll do anything. I'm here for you." Mycroft's tone was becoming increasingly unguarded and desperate. 

_Sherlock dissolved into tears as soon as the door shut. What happened with John?_

Greg's text came as Sherlock began to go at the next cup of water, utterly desperate for it, drinking the water down in a panic. 

_Same. By the time I got him to his room he was apologizing for hurting Sherlock, didn't know if it was better for him to leave as soon as he felt himself slipping, or to wait until he was in full panic. I think this will be easier on them both over time but Christ it's hard now. John lost presence, got lost and forgot where he was nearly an hour. I couldn't touch him. Is Sherlock talking?_

Sherlock gagged even as he swallowed the water, greedy now that he had it, hardly believing he'd turned down water earlier. His stomach was twisting up in knots as tears slid down his cheeks, his grip solid on the cup even as he shook apart. 

Mycroft didn't want to upset Sherlock's stomach, but he was worried that denying him water would make him even more upset than his stomach would be. "You're okay. It's okay. It's all alright. You're doing wonderful. Would you like more?"

_Sherlock is speaking, but isn't particularly lucid. His fears are apparent at the moment. He believes that John left him. He was quite distraught over it._

Sherlock stopped mid-swallow and whimpered as he felt the very familiar warnings from his stomach that he was going to toss up. Oh god how he just wanted the water. "I- I...I...s-s-sick I'm-" he grew faintly green, closing his eyes as he dropped the cup, pressing a shaking hand to his face. 

Greg responded to the text swiftly. 

_Would it help if I called?_

Mycroft took the cup and put it back on the table. "It's alright. It's okay. Deep breathes, Sherlock." He texted Miller in warning, just in case there was something the man could do. 

_I don't know._

Miller was back in less than a minute, going to Sherlock's side. "Too much water," he asked softly, touching Sherlock's shoulder.

Sherlock went very still, desperately trying to remind himself that Miller would not harm him. He let go of Mycroft as he lost his hold on himself, grabbing Miller and shoving him back hard. "D-don't touch m-me," he hissed, starting to silently cry again, "d-don't touch...please...I-"

In the next moment Sherlock was violently sicking up on himself, losing all the water, screaming in fear. Moran had beat him mercilessly every time he'd become sick, and Miller for whatever reason always made him lose himself. There was a rush of water followed by pathetic screams, over and over again until he'd emptied his stomach.

"MY!" He shouted, eyes pinched shut and fists balled in anticipation of pain, "MY HELP HELP MY HELP MY!! PLEASE GOD, MY HELP HELP!"

"I'm here, 'Lock!" Mycroft shouted loudly and held his brother's head. The situation was deteriorating and he felt responsible. "It was only a few ounces," he explained to Miller, "Hardly five. He was begging for it and sucking on his fingers I just..." Mycroft held him as Sherlock began to scream and tried to calm him. He took hold of the free arm and pinned it in the protective position across Sherlock's chest to keep him from hurting himself. 

"It's ALRIGHT! It's My!"

Sherlock kept himself locked up defensively, prepared for retaliation. He could not stop himself from screaming, utterly terrified of what was to come. Already he could hear John starting to beg mercy. 

"Not John," be managed to whine between broken sobbing. 

His stomach heaved again and he only managed to kick up bile, Miller able to shove a basin under him this time before he managed to be ill on himself again. 

"NO! _NO!_ " John was screaming now, that high-pitched, twisted note that let Sherlock know they were burning him. 

Miller pushed an anti-emetic into his line to keep him from vomiting again and shouted to Mycroft over his brother's desperate mix of pleading babbling and terrified screaming. 

"If I sedate him he'll stop breathing," he explained. It had been less than an hour since he'd given him a massive tranquilizer. 

Mycroft was desperately trying to calm him. It was only water! 

"It's okay, Sherlock. It's okay. I'm right here. I'm right here and you are safe with me." Mycroft held Sherlock's head and arm to keep him stable and from hurting himself. "I'm sorry, it's okay. Nobody will hurt John. Nobody. John is safe." 

Mycroft looked shocked and worried, and he held Sherlock close for his own benefit as well as for his brother's. 

"Do you think it's best to risk it?" Mycroft didn't want to put Sherlock under if it wasn't safe, but this degree of fear couldn't be healthy for the mind. 

"No," Miller instantly answered, "not at all. No. John's been in a panic like this many times, it's not going to kill him. Sedating him might. I'll have Paul brought in to help you. Water was fine to give him, don't fret over that. He just had it too fast." Miller was already texting for Paul, 

Sherlock screamed John's name as he heard the whip come down, listening to John beg and cry with exhaustion, fear, and pain. He struggled against Mycroft and the restraints as though he had any hope of helping him. Again he called out desperately, " _JOHN!_ G-GOD STOP! JOHN!" 

_Shut up Sherlock or I'm going to entertain myself while you watch this. Already tossed up that water I gave you like an ungrateful bitch. Act like one and I'll ride you like one, how's that?_

Sherlock suddenly went very still and very quiet, whimpering to himself in terror. Paul came in just as the color drained from Sherlock's face and he held his breath in anticipation of pain. 

"What happened?" He asked gently, looking at Mycroft in honest sympathy. The elder brother had not had a moment's rest in far too long. 

Mycroft could feel his objective mind slipping away as he clutched his brother. "He had water too fast and threw up. It triggered something and he's-" Mycroft flinched at his screaming and dropped his head to Sherlock's temple. He tried whispering to him, but his voice was drowned out by John's name. 

"My fault. I let him drink too fast because I was emotionally moved by his pleading. Should remain objective." Mycroft reminded himself over and over again that mistakes could not be made with this much at stake.

Paul walked right back out of the room, grabbed a box from behind the security desk, and returned right away. Sherlock was still carrying on, lost and terrified, as he pulled the speakers from inside the jumble of items. It took all of two minutes to plug them in and attach headphones, walking over to Sherlock and slipping them over his ears even as Sherlock began to gag, teeth clenched, trying to escape. He clicked on the MP3 and watched as Sherlock's own violin began to play in his ears, loud enough that it would drown out Sherlock's thoughts. 

John abruptly stopped screaming, and Moran stopped talking, as Fur Elise thread through his eardrums and slipped over his mind like a soothing balm. He held still, not daring to breathe as the music washed over him. Ten seconds later he dragged in a deep, hitching breath and began to relax his muscles, the tranquilizer still in his veins, his panic swiftly becoming memory. 

Paul nodded and looked down at the man. "We are going to have to get him out of that blanket. I've got a quilt from his flat, along with some of his night clothes. Listen, Mycroft, watching someone beg for something as core as water is...exceedingly difficult. He's allowed to have water, his stomach is just unpredictable at the moment. Take a deep breath, he's-" 

Sherlock whimpered and began to cry again as the music abruptly stopped. Paul looked down and shook his head, seeing that it was the gap between songs, holding up his finger to Mycroft until Sherlock quited a few seconds later. 

"Will you please take a pill for nerves? You look ready to fall over." 

Mycroft grabbed Paul's arm and gave him a very serious look. 

"Thank you. _Thank you._ " He was deeply apologetic that he hadn't thought of it himself. He dipped his head down beside Sherlock and heard the song's melody faintly. 

"Sherlock, I'm here," Mycroft whispered. Paul's request seemed reasonable and he nodded. 

"Yes, just...I need time to sleep, but I can't leave him. Could you call for a bed to be brought in? I might sleep a bit easier if I was in the same room as him."

Paul stopped moving for a moment, utterly shocked at Mycroft's honest gratitude. He wrapped a hand around the fingers gripping his arm and squeezed before letting go again, making no remark of it. 

"I'm going to get started right now with this room. He keeps losing himself. You said he was sucking water off his fingers? That's...something we need to talk to him about. Now, the challenge is going to be getting this blanket off him, he's nude and this is too soiled to ignore. My best suggestion here, since we can't sedate him, is for me to bring in your bed, the lamps, and the quilt from his flat and leave you to help him. I worry that if he sees anyone else at the moment, it's going to set him off." 

Mycroft gave a shallow nod. "I'll help him. He'll need to be cleaned up a bit and the blanket needs to go... Bring in another two, one to cover him with once we get the first off, and a third to use after he's a bit more cleaned up." He didn't want to move the blanket off suddenly and alarm him, and would prefer the room look a bit less like the one he was raped in before they did it. 

While Sherlock was listening to the music and calm, staring up at the ceiling, Paul gave Mycroft his medication and called for a meal. He tucked Mycroft into the chair at Sherlock's bedside, setting about pulling things from the box, nodding to the staff when they brought in a fresh change of clothes for Mycroft as well as a hot meal. "You take care of yourself while I handle this. He seems...settled for now, let's take the time we have to our advantage." 

It took the better part of half an hour for Paul to get the few things they'd managed to acquire set in place. Soft lighting from floor and bedside lamps took over the job of the fluorescents and Paul tacked a large, forest green bedsheet to the wall just beside Sherlock, a simple attempt at breaking up the white walls and clinical setting of the room. 

Mycroft's bed was wheeled back in, set beside Sherlock's. Paul folded Sherlock's night clothes from his home, as well as his personal quilt from his bed at home. Beside that, he folded two clinic blankets and offered a warm basin of water and a few cloths. 

Mycroft waited until he had finished his own meal to begin. He spoke softly and worked from the bottom up. "It's okay, Sherlock, it's just me. It's My. Just listen to your music." 

With hands slightly unsteady from nerves, Mycroft raised the soiled blanket at Sherlock's feet and slipped the other one underneath it. He worked in very small increments, inch by inch, giving the new blanket time to warm up before going up again. He wanted to see how Sherlock was reacting before he reached his hips and torso. 

"It's alright...It's okay..."

Sherlock flinched hard when he felt the bedding shifting, his focus sliding away from the ceiling, looking down at his feet. It took a moment to register that he was looking at Mycroft, slowly relaxing as his own music swelled in his ears. He could hear the street activity that ran beside his flat where he recorded the music, not having intended for it to be the last chance he had to capture the beauty he could coax from the strings. For now, it was a blessing, pulling up images of the activity outside of Speedy's, the mail trucks and the foot traffic he so often watched when thinking. It took him out of the darkness of Moran's custody and put him back home. 

He understood that his brother was the one handling him before his extremely stressed mind shut down again, his focus blurring as he looked back to the ceiling, closing his eyes. A tremor kicked up along his hands, but he otherwise kept his breathing even and his heart was as quiet as it ever got. 

Mycroft pulled the second blanket up underneath the first until it was to his chest. He took the soiled blanket off very slowly and tossed it a bin. Sherlock would need to be cleaned as well, but Mycroft didn't want to hurt the multitude of slashes on his skin. He decided to only work on the areas that had bile on them, and leave the rest to be cleaned when he was sedated and less likely to misinterpret his actions. 

Mycroft started on his shoulder, that one spot that had only been severely bruised and not cut. 

"It's okay, Sherlock. I'm just going to clean you up a bit."

That, however, was past Sherlock's ability to cope. He dislodged the headphones as he reacted sharply, grabbing Mycroft's wrist and holding tight. He turned wide eyes on his brother, his breath shattering in and out of his lungs abruptly. He groaned with fear, struggling to understand. 

"M-M-My," he breathed, teeth chattering as he looked down at his chest. He'd thrown up on himself, that's what had happened. 

_You little_ shit! _You beg for water and when I give it you fucking toss it up? This a game, Sherlock? Alright, let's play._

He closed his eyes as a tear tracked down his cheek, his grip iron on Mycroft's wrist. "T-tell-l me that y-y-you're n-n-not-t-t angry. I d-d-didn't m-mean...I w-wanted the water I d-d-d-didn't mean to m-make a m-m-m-mess. I'm ss-s-sorry god pl-please.

Mycroft put the headphones back on and nodded. "I am not angry," he said loudly. "I am not angry. I am just helping you. I am helping you be clean. This is to _help_ you. I am your brother, and I would never hurt you. I'll never hurt you. I love you." 

Mycroft moved in small circles on the same spot until he felt Sherlock was alright with it. 

Sherlock reached up, sinking his hand into his hair and pulling tight, trying to focus on the music as tears slid down his cheeks. It was increasingly difficult to keep still and quiet with hands on him. He managed for a few minutes before the urge to struggle and beg nearly became overwhelming. 

"Don't f-fight," he whispered under his breath in an attempt to divert his urge to scream for help, "J-Just M-My...d-don't fight. Don't fight. Be s-still."

Mycroft ran his fingers back through Sherlock's hair. It was difficult to touch his brother while knowing full well that he was remembering his torment. Mycroft was disgusted with the fact that Moran had hurt his brother to the point where he couldn't even touch him without causing pain. 

"It is me, Mycroft. Just My. I love you. I love you."  
Sherlock pulled the headphones away, needing to interact with his brother while this was happening. He nodded, forcing himself to slow down with his breathing. 

"I know...I know y-you won't hurt me. I'm n-not af-fraid of you, M-My. Y-You're my b-big brother," he whispered in a mix of complete lucidity and childish dependency. He opened his eyes and looked at Mycroft, sad and ashamed as tears slid down his face. 

"I'm s-s-sorry I ke-ke-k" he closed his eyes and groaned, pulling at his hair again as his mind began to fail, " _Keep_ g-getting lost. I d-d-didn't m-mean to lose the w-water." 

"Sherlock, there is plenty of water. I don't care that you lost it. I will give you more. There is no shortage. I will always give you more water. Always. I am not angry with you. You are doing so well. So well." 

Mycroft worked down to his chest a bit, which had a bit of bile on it from where it had soaked through the blanket. "You're doing so well. There is plenty of water for you. You can have more whenever you want."

Sherlock watched Mycroft, keeping his eyes locked to Mycroft's fingers. "I c-can't believe I didn't w-want water this morning. I..h-how could I have not..." he tried to remember what had him so upset when he'd woken. 

_John._

He grit his teeth and nodded to himself. "Oh...I'd...I th-thought..." he went quiet, hissing as the cloth brushed close to pained areas, stinging despite Mycroft's efforts to be careful. 

Mycroft rinsed the rag off and started again. "It's alright. I'll always offer you water, and you are free to request it any time. We'll go a bit slower next time, and you won't be sick. You'll feel good and we'll put on one of those space shows."

Sherlock reached down and took hold of Mycroft's hand, his fingertips accidentally pressing into the heated cloth, pushing lines of moisture down his chest, the clear beads catching on scars and sutures, stinging brilliantly. He paid it no mind, staring up at his brother. 

"My...am...am I h-hurting you," he whispered tightly, his eyes dancing over his brother's face. "Y-you l-l-look like you're in p-pain. Are you in pain? Wh-what's..." he grit his teeth and shook his head, deeply afraid.

"Wh-what's wrong? My are...is...p-please I'm trying to st-stay with you it's..." he was slipping, clawing back up his mental walls, needing to understand. 

Mycroft gave Sherlock a sad, but not pained smile. "You aren't hurting me, 'Lock. It's only sympathy. I am sad that you were hurt, but I am not in pain." 

Oh, if only that was the truth. Mycroft's throat burned and his chest felt tight. "I love you. I am alright. I am helping you, and I am so proud of you."

Sherlock knew Mycroft was only telling him half the story, fear driving hard the need to fix it, to set things right. 

"I- I c-c-can do this you don't h-have to do th-this...I m-made the m-mess, you are tired. C-Can't one of these doctors h-help you? You s-said they were yours. They are supposed t-to help. Here, l-lo-look I can..." he tried to get his bandaged hand around the cloth, shifting so that he could try and clean himself up. Only, he'd never truly looked at himself, and when he finally put his focus down to the macabre lines of sutures, standing up like concertina wire at crazed angles, burns and patches of twisted, mangles skin, his stomach rolled on him again and he locked up tight, going very still. 

He stared at himself with wide eyes, the cloth caught between his hand and Mycroft's fingers frozen in place, dripping uselessly. His voice shook terribly when he finally spoke. 

"My...o-oh god...I'm...M-My...l-l-look at...oh… oh g-god." 

Mycroft gently took the cloth and pulled the sheet back up over his shoulders. 

"It's alright. Those will heal. I promise you they will heal. We can help you heal." He waited for Sherlock to calm down a bit before he continued. 

"The doctors aren't helping because I wanted to be the one to help you. I'm helping you because you are my brother. I love you, alright? I love you."

Sherlock stared at his chest even as the blankets covered his wounds. 

"I m-meant you. Why are th-they f-f-failing to help you," he breathed, his focus locked to his body. Sluggishly he turned his eyes back to his brother. 

"Y-you want me to l-live. You're g-going to have to e-endure me for a v-very long time and I'm a-already h-hurting you." 

He knew well enough that he was unlikely to be able to live alone for quite some time, and John...well John _used to_. That was over. His hand shook as he looked away, staring at the green cloth on the wall. 

"M-Moran never...had g-green on the walls."

Mycroft nodded and pointed to the green sheet. 

"That is a nice thing for you to think of. Keep looking at the green. It's not Moran. This place is not somewhere Moran can be." 

Mycroft slowly pulled the sheet up just enough for him to see and cleaned between the sutures. 

"You're doing so well. You're doing so well, Sherlock. The doctors are helping me, but I needed to stay awake to help you. I am not simply enduring you, 'Lock. I love you. Remember that."

"No!" 

Sherlock turned back to his brother, reaching out and grabbing Mycroft suddenly by the shirtfront and giving him a shake. 

" _No_! You c-an't just s-stay awake. You- _no I c-can't do that to you! I don't mean to do that to you! Oh g-god you...please you _have to sleep_." _

__He shook Mycroft again, fearful anger bleeding down into pained tears, "I d-don't mean to hu-hurt you! I'm s-s-sorry! You c-can't stay..you don't n-n-need to stay awake! You're allowed t-to sleep!"

"Sherlock, nobody forced me to stay awake." Mycroft spoke gently and added the lack of sleep to a list of things not to speak about. "I just couldn't sleep. I wanted to stay awake. You're doing fantastic. Nobody is hurting me. You are not hurting me. You know that I have trouble sleeping, as did you. Can't turn my mind off." He gave a small smile and kissed Sherlock on the head. 

"I'm not in pain."

Sherlock reached up then, touching Mycroft's face before letting his hand fall back to the bed. He was exhausted, and struggling to keep himself calm. Mycroft was lying to him, but there was precious little he could do about it. He resolved in that moment to be as easy to care for as possible, determined not to add to his sibling's stress. It was the first time since his childhood that he'd ever wanted such a thing. John...John had abandoned him. Mycroft remained. He could do this for his brother.

Mycroft cleaned the rest of Sherlock's chest and put the rag down. It didn't seem necessary to change the blanket once more, but he could still vainly smell bile and did so anyway. 

"I'll get some sleep. I've a bed right there, see?"

Mycroft finished and picked up the quilt. If he was lucky, it would look, feel and smell like home. 

"Sherlock, look what I have. Isn't this nice? It's straight from Baker Street." Mycroft draped it over his brother and tucked him in as though he were a child.

It took a moment for the scent of the blanket to reach him, but when it did, Sherlock reached down and grabbed a fist full of the material, dragging it up and burying his face in it. The scent of it pulled at something deep down and fundamental inside of him. Slow, heavy tears rolled down his cheeks as he nuzzled into the feel of the familiar fabric, his chest aching for home. 

Not for home, though, not really. He ached for what home used to mean. Now...now it was just an empty flat filled with regret. But he would take that over the agony of the goddamned table any day. 

"Th-thank you," he whispered into the familiar stitching, already nearly dropping off to sleep.

"Okay, Sherlock. I love you. I hope that helps you. Get some sleep, and I will too. I won't leave you. I'll stay right here with you." Mycroft took his hand and kissed it gently. 

He was so relieved that the cleaning and changing didn't end in a fit of screaming and that the blanket seemed to be calming him. "Just remember that you've a blanket, and you can ask for water any time you want. I love you, 'Lock."

Sherlock nodded and slowly drifted down to sleep, clutching the blue blanket desperately in his hand. 

A few minutes later, Paul texted Mycroft. 

_How is everything? Do you need me?_

Slowly Mycroft eased away and pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes. It would be so much easier to just go to sleep and ignore his own mind, but repairs needed to be made, and he needed to assess how Sherlock's panic was affecting him. 

_He is asleep. I intend to get some sleep too._

Paul replied a moment later. 

_Anything you need, do not hesitate. I am going to look in on John and Greg._

 

Mycroft dropped into an uneasy and shallow sleep with his face towards Sherlock and the lights dimmed to a single lamp in the corner. 

He nodded to Miller, leaving the man behind so that Sherlock's physician would be close, and made his way down the hall. 

Greg was awake, sitting beside John as he read the text that Paul intended a visit. He looked over to the traumatized man, wondering if that would be productive. 

"John?"

John hummed in reply and continued staring at a small piece of thread with his eyes only half open. It was another day. Another day where he would disappoint Greg and upset Sherlock.

John and Sherlock had both managed an incredible amount of sleep the night before, and while Sherlock and Mycroft clearly needed additional rest, Greg was more awake than he'd been in a long while. John was despondent, but he wasn't screaming or begging, and so he felt certain he could deal with that. 

"Hey," he said warmly, threading his fingers through John's hair and scrubbing lightly along his scalp, "you alright? Talk to me."

John leaned into the touch and tilted his head to either side like a cat. "I'm sad today," John muttered and wrung his hands together. 

"More sad than usual. I'm going to fail. I'll hurt Sherlock when I go see him and when I drink my water I'll disappoint you by not being calm."

Greg decided that Paul was likely going to be more of a help than a hinderance today, at least with this mood, and did nothing to discourage him from coming. 

"That's a lot for you to be worrying about," Greg said gently, carrying on working his fingers through John's hair, massaging his scalp. "Do you remember what I said about you being calm? You don't have to stay calm. It's alright, John it really is. Just breathe. Is it okay if Paul comes to see us today?"

John twisted a bit of fabric between his fingers. "Yeah, I guess. I know he won't hurt me, but I just don't like what he makes us talk about."

John poured all his focus on the fingers on his scalp and his expression eased from pained to relaxed and almost contented. "You're good to me, Greg."

Greg smiled at him, relieved that he was able to offer some measure of comfort. "I love you," he replied simply, as though it explained everything. It did, honestly, which made the explanation so much simpler. 

Paul knocked lightly and Greg called out that it was alright for him to enter. The day was thankfully sunny, and it was only a bit passed ten in the morning. Paul walked in, taking in the mood of the room, and walked over to the chair John always allowed him to sit in. 

"Good morning," he said very quietly, giving John a bit of a smile. Greg responded to him, even though his focus was still on John. "Morning Paul." 

John continued to press himself against Greg while Paul walked in and gave a small, melancholy whimper. "Hi, Paul."

Paul gave him a friendly nod and leaned forward, looking at John. "Sad day?"

John nodded and buried his face down. "I'm sad today. More than normal days. I can't do things right and I keep failing and I can't make anyone happy." John listed his failings as if speaking them would condemn him, and he seemed to shrink in size as he spoke.

Greg carried on carding his fingers through John's hair, shifting closer to John as John moved in closer to him, wanting him to feel that Greg would meet him wherever he needed today. Paul nodded and watched the pair, getting his thoughts together. 

"That is a scary place to be. I'm sorry your day has started out like that. I know it's hard for me to get out of bed when I'm sure that all I'm going to do is mess up all day long," Paul offered. Greg nodded, huffing a gentle laugh, "Yeah, no kidding. I feel the same way. Only John doesn't see when he makes me happy. Thinks he only managed it once." 

He smiled down sadly at John before leaning down and dropping a warm, firm kiss to John's temple, sitting back up and scrubbing his hand through John's hair again.

The affection from Greg and the kind words from both him and Paul lifted his spirits just slightly and he sat up a bit. "I'm going to try again with the water today and make him happy," he told Paul, "I'm going to make him proud of me and we'll go outside and walk." 

John's mind was very simple at the moment, it's functions slow and it's desires rather straightforward. He would help Greg be happy and help Sherlock be happy, and in the process perhaps find a bit of the feeling himself. "Can I have water so I can get it over with?" John seemed to realize that he was asking for water after the fact and his eyes widened. His muscles grew stiff and his hand flew up to cover his nose and mouth.

"I-I mean, no, I don't...that's not what I meant."

Paul watched John react from fear after requesting water, and again was reminded of how critical it was that they get him past this. John had been drinking without this sort of reaction for a short time in the medical hospital, though the continued traumas on location had obviously done their damage. He kept his tone calm and held up his hands. 

"John. Do you fear that one day, Greg or I will push you to your back and pour water over a rag when you ask for water?"

It was blunt, and Greg's reaction to the question was without hesitation. "Paul, Christ," he whispered as he gathered John in closer and fully pulled him into his lap protectively. 

Paul shook his head, "I'm asking honestly. I'm not angry."

John's eyes widened and he clamped his other hand over his mouth. With a frantic expression he scrambled to sit up and shook his head, not to say no to the question, but to express his distaste in the scenario. John looked from Greg to Paul, pleading silently with each. 

When he finally got up the nerve to speak, he moved his hand a fraction of an inch away from his mouth and whispered. "Please don't do that."

Greg had John tight in his arms, fully in his lap as one holds a child about to be read to. He whispered right next to John's ear, "No one is ever going to do that to you," he assured, looking up at Paul as though the man had lost his mind. 

Paul, however, stood up and walked over to the small fridge, collecting a bottle of water and pouring it into a cup, well within John's view. He sealed a lid over the top and punched a straw through before walking back over to John, crouching so that he was lower than the men on the bed. 

"John, has water like this ever hurt you before?"

John whimpered and clutched Greg when Paul got the water bottle. In combination with what he just asked, which to John sounded like a threat, it was incredibly unsettling. 

"Don't let him," he begged and pressed his nose and mouth against Greg's chest. "Don't let him do that." 

When he finally ventured to look over and saw not a rag and a bottle, but a small cup, sealed and non-threatening, he shook his head. "Not like that, but there's still water in it. You're hurting...You're scaring me." John tried to articulate what was happening to himself to keep the panic down. 

"Greg, I don't like this. I don't like it."

Greg had his palm wrapped protectively around the back of John's neck, fingers lightly stroking at the base of his head as John asked for protection. He kept his eyes on Paul, completely at odds with what was going on here. 

Paul nodded when John spoke, keeping his distance, making no move to advance. "I know that water frightens you, John. I take no pleasure in that. There is a point to this. I know you are scared, please try and stay with me. You said water like this never hurt you. This is cold, clean water. This is your measure for the day. Tell me what you are afraid of." 

John whimpered and clutched Greg with as much strength as he had in his weak limbs. 

"It scares me because...I..." John couldn't quite articulate it, and he tried to form some sort of analogy. 

"Not like burning or drowning, but..." There was a word somewhere, but he couldn't quite get it out. It seemed to stick in his throat like the rest of the idea, as if keeping it inside would keep it from happening, or ever having happened at all. 

"It hurts like speaking. Speaking doesn't hurt, but what he did...What he did to me for speaking..." John took a deep breath and tried to hide himself in Greg's arms.   
"H-He'd put water out, and I was so thirsty, but then I-I..It would be bad, and hurting, and sometimes it was the knives or the painful water or...Just..." John reached out and took the water. "I don't want to talk about it. Let me just get this done."

Paul made no move to stop him or further press him to explain. He gave the water over and stepped back, giving John physical distance, speaking only when he was on the far end of the room. 

"John, while you are drinking that, I want you to try and focus on what you feel only in this moment. You're in Greg's lap, protected and safe. It is warm and sunlit in here. That water is clean and cool. Your clothes are soft. There is music. I just want you to think about how you feel right in this moment and nothing more. I'm going to leave you alone with Greg for a few minutes and then I'm going to come back." 

Greg watched Paul leave, helping John keep hold of the water so that he would not lose it, speaking softly to him. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry John, it's okay. I've got you." 

John held the cup, but only thought about drinking it once Paul was gone. John was beginning to grow a bit self-conscious about falling apart, and did not want to do so unless it was just himself and Greg. "I don't like him," John whispered as he raised the straw to his mouth. "He isn't nice like you."

The first sip was always the worst, and John suppressed a gag. _Music. Greg is here. Soft clothes. Clean water. No pain. Nobody is hurting me. Greg is here. Greg is here._

Greg gently rubbed John's back and spoke softly to him. "Today I think we should try and see that bird of yours, and maybe play a bit of Rummy. It's sunny again, it's been so nice outside recently. I can't remember a year we had so many nice days in a row. Later tonight we can watch a movie, there are a few on that I've not seen in awhile and I- take a breath, I've got you, you're doing really well- I'd like to see them again," he carried on, trying to keep John's mind busy and present, soothing him when it looked as though John was getting lost. 

John nodded and continued with his drink. He took deep breaths through his nose while keeping a steady stream of water in his mouth in order to remind himself that he wasn't drowning. 

"Outside is good," he remarked when he was nearly halfway through. His mind was making erratic jumps from circumstance to circumstance, all of which ended with his lungs full of water. 

"This is what you want, isn't it? For me to drink water?"

Greg nodded, sliding his fingers through John's hair and pressing a soft kiss to his temple. "Yes, I want you to drink the water. When we go outside, do you want to try and draw your tree? I've not had a chance to draw in months, I miss it, but I'm going to feel silly sitting out there and being the only one drawing. Will you sketch with me?"

It was easier for him to help John in this now that John had so sternly insisted that he do this. 

"Remember how happy you were with your calendar? Look," he nodded to the wall where it was easy to see, "remember you set what you wanted to do? It's going to feel so good when you meet your own challenge. You're nearly there." 

John nodded and continued with his water. It was getting a bit easier, though the nagging fear was still there. He did everything in his power to keep the tears out of his eyes, but they began anyway. 

"I don't know if I can draw," he responded weakly, and put his mouth back on the straw. 

"You're nice to me. I love you. I love you. I've got this." John had almost reached the bottom, but it was only when it made the loud slurping sound like a child with a milkshake that he stopped. Suddenly scowling, John tossed the cup across the room where it tapped against the wall on the opposite side. 

Greg couldn't help the soft laugh, shaking his head and picking up John's hand to press kisses to John's knuckles. 

"Damn that cup and it's bloody noises anyhow, right?" He joked, pulling John to his chest for a long, warm hug. 

"You did fantastic. Just fantastic. Even with Paul stirring you up before hand you got that water down. I'm so pleased with you I could burst." He pressed a familial kiss to John's temple and drew in a deep breath. 

"Course you can draw. Anyone can draw. If your fingers give you trouble, I'll help you find another way to hold the pencil." He cuddled John to him, breathing deep and easy for once. It was brilliant. Whatever Paul had been attempting to do, John seemed...well, he was better than Greg had expected, and the relief was nearly overwhelming. 

John was panting a bit, still on edge, but Greg's happiness was infectious and he smiled right back at him. 

"Thank you, I'm happy too. OH!" He got up suddenly, crawling over Greg's lap like an excited dog to get to the door. He leaned out around the corner and got the pen once more, and the guard told him he could keep it if Greg said it was alright. John bounded back to the calendar and put a checkmark by the previous day's two successes and the latest effort, which felt incredibly encouraging to do. 

"Will you keep this?" John asked and gave Greg the pen. "You were worried that I would hurt myself with it last time, so you should have it. Look! I get to cross things off!"

Greg took the pen and smiled broadly at John's excitement. 

"Look at all that progress in just a few days. Awesome, John, that's just bloody awesome." He beamed at him and wrapped John up in an excited hug. 

"Alright, let's get dressed and go outside. If Paul still wants to chat, he can talk to you out there with me between you, yeah?" He gave him a warm smile, but wanted John to know that he had every intention of protecting him. He did not say it with enough force to make John worry that Greg believed Paul a threat, but the line was there. 

"What a great start to the day.”

John's world was finally full of color once more and he quickly changed. Greg was happy, and it was because of something he had done. The nagging voices, the ones that told him about how worthless he was and how his death would be a blessing, were gone for the time being and John enjoyed every second of it. He had a delighted, open mouthed grin on his face and followed Greg to the door. 

"I've done good already today. I'm getting better at this! Someday, I'll just drink water and it won't be a big deal at all. I'll have tea again."  
Greg let himself into the lav, leaving John to dress himself and get ready to go out. He went through his own motions, incredibly pleased with the morning so far, texting Paul to hold off for a while. 

He was back in the room swiftly, changed and washed up, ready to pack up for the trip outside. He began loading their bag and then plucked John's blanket off the bed, walking over to him and pulling him in for a hug. 

"You are just wonderful. Are you ready?"

John hugged Greg and decided that if this was what life consisted of, he never wanted to leave it. This was something he could so easily do, and did his very best to express that to Greg. 

"I love this. You're happy, and I'm happy, and I want to stay. Not in this room, I want to go outside, but I want to _stay._ "

Greg froze, his breath stilling in his lungs for a moment before he looked down at John. 

"You-" he stared at John's face, the seconds ticking by as the words soaked into his mind. Finally his lips turned in a slow, honest smile, tears slipping down his cheeks as relief nearly took him to his knees, "oh god, I'm- that's brilliant. That's the best...best thing you ever could say to me. You want to stay. You want to _stay_." 

He nodded, dashing a hand across his face, laughing at himself. 

"God, sorry, yeah the- that's- you've just really made me so happy I-" he shook his head and gathered John to him, burying his face in John's neck. "I love you. I love you, John." 

John laughed at the warmth of the hug and the honest happiness in Greg's voice. Yes, this was something he could do. He could make Greg happy and continue with the water. John wrapped his thin arms around Greg and closed his eyes, which were wrinkled at the corners with genuine delight. 

"I love you, Greg. I want to stay with you. I like this. This is happy, and this is good. Let's go outside and draw. It's such a nice day, and you're a nice person."

A deep breath and a few minutes later, Greg had a blanket fanned out under John's tree, with John flush up against his side and paper in their hands. He breathed in deep and smiled, bumping their shoulders together. 

He dug out a few pencils, handing one over to John. 

He never allowed anyone to know of his hobby, and he'd missed it greatly. Sherlock, of course, had caught him with graphite or charcoal on his fingers from time to time, but aside from the occasional teasing, he hardly said anything about it. 

John's hands were clumsy, and he never was particularly good at art, but he decided to try anyway. 

"You should draw something," he requested. "I don't know how. Why don't you try? You'll be better." John leaned his head down against Greg's shoulder and decided that drawing would be a nice skill, if he could accomplish it. 

Greg smiled as John leaned against him and slipped effortlessly into that mental space where his hands did as they wanted, joining with a part of his mind he could not access in any other way. He gripped the pencil from the side and began to speak to John as his body relaxed, the act of putting graphite to paper nearly sedating. 

"I've been doing this for years and years. Got scarlet fever as a kid, in bed for months, nothing else to do. Decided I loved it and never stopped." 

He looked up as Paul came out onto the lawn, "Don't worry, I've told him to be easier with you, we're happy and you've earned keeping hold of that. Remember you set safe words all those months ago? Vatican Cameos. You tell him that and he's going to shut up and walk away without another word." 

John leaned on Greg's shoulder and watched him draw. "You're good at it. Really good. You should keep drawing, and maybe teach me. I tried with pencils once, but those look like more fun." John was overwhelmed with affection for Greg then, and each mark he made on the paper seemed to remind him just how much he loved the man. "You're wonderful," he whispered over and over and tried not to bump Greg and mess with his drawing. 

At mention of Paul, John wrinkled his nose, but his mood was not dampened. "Yeah, I'll send him away if he starts to be mean. Or not mean, but hurtful. We're happy today, and nobody can take that from us."

John leaned on Greg's shoulder and watched him draw. "You're good at it. Really good. You should keep drawing, and maybe teach me. I tried with pencils once, but those look like more fun." John was overwhelmed with affection for Greg then, and each mark he made on the paper seemed to remind him just how much he loved the man. "You're wonderful," he whispered over and over and tried not to bump Greg and mess with his drawing. 

At mention of Paul, John wrinkled his nose, but his mood was not dampened. "Yeah, I'll send him away if he starts to be mean. Or not mean, but hurtful. We're happy today, and nobody can take that from us."

Paul walked over, smiling at the men. Greg had his back to the tree, knees up, obviously sketching. He'd not seen Greg do that in years. 

"Back at it? Oh, John, wait until you see what he can do with portraits. Brilliant. Never could get him to display his work." 

He took a seat on the ground off the blanket, sweeping his eyes over John and Greg before looking up at the sky. 

Greg smiled without looking at Paul. He had the outlines of John's face down on the paper without particularly having thought of who he was drawing, his hands just going to work, moving in a mix of abstract and realism, more around the eyes than anything else. 

"John has been brilliant as ever today, and we are enjoying a calm morning," he said in both praise of John and warning to Paul to ease off. 

John realized what Greg was drawing and his appreciation for him went up once more. 

"I drank the water and marked it on the calendar. It's good to have it because it keeps me working for something and I think it makes it better for Greg too."   
John leaned over and kissed the man's cheek. 

"I'm happy today. I'm very happy." He repeated the phrase to himself as if to etch it into his memory for later use when he forgot what the word meant. 

"And Greg is amazing. He's fantastic. I love him."

Paul smiled and stretched casually, leaning back with his palms splayed on the ground at his back, taking in the sunlight that broke through the cold air. 

"That's wonderful. It's very good to hear you so happy, John. Greg as well, you both deserve happy. John, do you remember what relaxation and happiness does for the human body?" 

He was attempting to call John to his medical mind in a safe way, and this was perfect. The effect of calm on the body was vast and far reaching, and it would allow John to pull forward the physician without negative stress. He hoped to break him past this childlike state John had adopted since the mental hospital. He'd more frequently been speaking as an adult, and Paul hoped to encourage more of that. 

"I'm sure it would be interesting for Greg to hear." 

John nodded and kept his eyes on Greg's hands. 

"Well, the body and mind are linked, so if you don't feel well mentally, you won't feel good physically. There are stress-related hormones and chemicals that are lowered, and dopamine and serotonin are raised, and you have more energy, and a better immune system." John rambled off a list of facts in a manner not quite adult like but still demonstrating that he had retained some information. 

"It's hard to remember things that happened before."

Paul nodded, choosing not to push at that for now. John and Greg were calm, and he quite agreed that they both very much deserved as much of a reprieve as possible. 

"I understand. You are doing incredibly well, John. Thank you for letting me work with you today. I'm going to leave the pair of you to yourselves. If you need anything, please call for me. We don't have to talk, I can bring you more supplies or another blanket, anything at all. I don't have to be your psychiatrist today." 

With that, he stood calmly and walked forward, putting his palm on the crown of Greg's head in a warm gesture of friendship before smiling at John and walking away. 

Greg's hand had stilled on the paper at Paul's touch, eyes closing and lips upturning. It was a good reminder that he was not alone, and it made him nuzzle into the side of John's head as Paul walked away. 

"I suppose I'm drawing you today. I hope that's alright."

John decided that Paul wasn't all that bad, but he still didn't like having him around. "You're a great artist. Why didn't I know about this before? I mean, we're good friends. It seems like the sort of thing I would pick up on." 

John wondered if Sherlock knew, but decided that he probably did. It was very difficult to hide things from that man if he wanted to see them. 

"I wonder if we could ever get to see animals again. Not like a zoo, but maybe go see some dogs and cats. I like the bird." John looked up and scanned the tree, but saw no sign of it. "Maybe it will come back later."

Greg resumed his work on the paper, mostly because it was so deeply soothing to him personally. He smiled as John spoke. 

"I keep it secret. Sherlock knows I draw, but he's never seen anything I've made. Just the graphite on my hands when he catches me off guard. Ex never saw any of it, either. I don't like to show what I do, but you've done so much for me, I thought it only fair to let you in on this. Now that I say it, it sounds bloody stupid in the face of all you're struggling with, but...yeah...that was my thinking." 

He huffed a laugh at himself, using the corner of his sleeve to smudge some of the lines, doing his best to capture the incredible man who sat next to him. Moriarty had beaten the life from him, scarred and marked his face, but somehow, in the moments when John was protective or clear, he'd not managed to change the incredible fire in John's eyes. 

John set his chin on Greg's shoulder so he could watch and hummed a bit of Sherlock's music. "Well, you're really good at it. People are weird about what is considered cool and what isn't. But if you think about it, most of the famous artists were men. You could be the next da Vinci." 

Greg hummed and changed the subject. "When we leave here, I'll buy you a dog if you like. I've not had a dog in a long time, I miss having one." 

John's eyes brightened. "Yeah? That would be great. I'd love a dog. A real, proper dog. A hunting dog or something. Not one of the little puffy ones. I had one when I was a kid, but never had a place to keep one. I doubt Sherlock would have let me keep one in the flat."

Greg kept on with the drawing, wondering how much to tell John. Hell, at this point it was unlikely Sherlock would be angry with him for disclosing the secret that he'd cried out on the side of road, sobbing out in a drugged panic. 

"I highly doubt Sherlock would have turned down a dog," Greg whispered as he carried on drawing. "He had a dog once, I don't think he's ever really gotten over losing him. Sherlock is much more of a softy than you remember." 

"Sherlock a softy?" John thought about it for a moment, and it did make a bit of sense. 

"He did get poutey about things a lot. He didn't speak with me for two days after I missed a case to see a girl. I only did it once, but he sulked for a while. I knew he was sensitive, which is why I never really cared for Donovan, but I wouldn't have guessed he never got over a childhood dog."

Greg nodded, brushing a fallen leaf off his paper. 

"Yeah, think it's a sore spot. Mycroft uses it sometimes to ah, remind Sherlock why it's not safe for him to love...anything. His brother means well but Christ, rough lesson." 

He shook his head and looked up at the small tree across from them, willing the bird to come back, scanning in hopes that it would. Or better yet, a squirrel or some other such creature. Anything to make John happy. 

"Not safe for him to love anything?" 

John asked and looked up into the tree. 

"Not safe for Sherlock, or for the person he is loving?" 

It was a bit cruel, but a viable question given the circumstances. 

"That must have been why he was so shut off to me all the time. I mean, I never expected him to love me, but there are certain things friends just do."

Greg was deeply glad he was distracted with the fluid lines on the paper. Sherlock was still someone he'd protected, emotionally and physically, for years and years now. It was difficult to turn that off. He inhaled deeply and attempted to answer clearly as he could. 

"Mycroft's warning as for his brother's own benefit, I am sure. Sherlock, however...he drives all of us away for our own protection. It's obvious it hurts him to do so, he's always behaved a bit like a child when wounded. Any time he drives us back, it's with some...childish act or remark. He's the loneliest man I've ever met." 

Or had been, before he'd met John Watson. The pair had given each other a run for their money. 

"I suppose he's seeing what his brother was talking about now. Mycroft was sure to remind him nearly every time they spoke in your first days back. Mycroft is gentler with him now, but in the beginning, it was difficult to watch." 

"I don't know if I like Mycroft," John commented, "but he helped us so much, so I suppose I should. I feel bad for Sherlock. I tried to get close to him, and I think I succeeded, but every time I got close he'd find some clever way to make me feel like an idiot or unwanted. I don't want him to be lonely. He shouldn't be lonely, Greg. You and I need to be there for him." 

John wrapped his arms around himself. Sherlock had always been a bit of an enigma, but when he thought of the fully grown man as a massive, lonely child, things became simpler. 

"He'll be even more hesitant to get attached now, now that he is even more afraid of hurting us. Me. But at least it's all out in the open."

Greg took a deep breath and leaned to the side, kissing John's temple and smiling softly at him. 

"You're a good man to consider him so much," he said honestly, staring at John for another moment before speaking. 

"Mycroft loves his brother very deeply. They are the most intelligent men I've ever encountered, and the most emotionally stunted men I've ever encountered. He's trying very hard to help Sherlock at the moment, I know that much. Before...before Sherlock was taken he was trying to help but he just didn't know how, and yeah, he was making it worse. But now...I don't know if we'd still have Sherlock if it were not for him. I know you want to help, but I don't want you to be hurt by it. We...you've done so well today. And you want to stay with me!" 

Greg beamed at him at the memory of those words, brushing against him again.

John was more than overjoyed to hear that his words, spoken in honesty, had made Greg so delighted. 

"I thought you would want to know that. This, what we're doing, is such a good thing. I can do this. Even if things hurt in between, I can do it. But..." 

John looked vaguely distressed for a moment and sat up. 

"But I might forget that. You'll have to remind me if things get bad about how happy I was today, and how much I need to keep going. Just remind me of today and I'll remember that things will be alright again."

Greg nodded, finally finishing off with his work. He tore the paper out of the book and handed it over to John, holding his breath. It was a good attempt at how he saw the man when he looked at John, eyes full of fire, strong and alive, the detail of the rest of John's face blurred and undefined, unimportant. It was clearly John's face, but it was the eyes that mattered. 

"I'll remind you. I will." 

The picture stole John's breath away. The focus on the eyes and the softness of the rest made him look so strong, and he put one hand over his mouth. 

"This...Is this how you see me? It's beautiful. I..." 

John didn't know he was capable of such strength. He didn't know that his face could look so alive. To John, he was a feeble mind living in a broken shell. 

"Thank you."

Greg nodded, startled with John's reaction. 

"Course that's how I see you," he replied, wondering how on earth John could have thought he did, other than that, "or, yeah, I mean I've not been drawing in a while so it's not uh, I may not have done as well as I could have but..." he looked at the picture in John's hands, "yeah, that's how I see you. That's how we all see you, I imagine. I- I'm glad you like it." 

He'd honestly not intended to draw John today, having had a mind to sit out at the tree and show John a few techniques for sketching the branches, but John seemed very pleased with the outcome, and so was he as a result. 

"Hell, if you like it so much maybe I should draw something for Sherlock. God know's I've been useless there." 

John held the drawing with awe in his expression. 

"It's perfect. Can we put this on the wall? I'd like it to go on the wall where I can see it. Maybe if I knew this was what I could be, it would be easier." 

John was delighted by it. Perhaps if Greg saw him like that, eventually, he could see himself with such fire in his eyes. 

"You should draw something for Sherlock. God, this is fantastic. You have to show me how to do this, because I love it." John held the drawing gingerly as if it were a fleeting image he would never see again.   
"It's not what you could be, John. It's what you are. It's also yours, and you can do whatever you like with it. I can draw you another if you want, God, I'd have done this a long time ago if I knew it would make you happy." 

He gave John a wide, happy smile, finally feeling productive for once. He'd put that sort of smile on John's face, and a bit of encouragement in John's heart, and that was more than he'd ever hoped to do.


	11. Sticks and Stones

"Do you want to go in for a bit? I'm hungry and we've got to sort out getting you cleaned up without it being bad for you. We can hang your picture, and I want another look at your check marks. Brilliant calendar," he added with a smile.

John stood up and helped Greg gather up the blanket. "You've been so good to me, Greg. I don't know how I would have done this without you, or what sort of man I would have become if I didn't have you to help me learn that I can do this. I love you." 

John shuddered internally at what he might have been, so terrified and full of fear, if Greg hadn't helped him. "I don't know what possessed you to devote your life to me, but I'm grateful. Let's go look at the calendar."

When they were finally back in John's room, Greg helped him put their things away and get settled before looking over at the calendar. He leaned in, taking the pen from his pocket and marking a star over the day. 

"You've been extraordinary today," he whispered, smiling at him. They'd passed a good deal of time outside. 

"Alright, I've got to eat. Do you think you can have a try at the applesauce again today? Or some broth? Feel free to say no, it's totally fine." 

John gave Greg a sad look and shook his head. 

"I'd rather not with the applesauce today, or if I do, right before bed. I'll do it tomorrow, though. I promise. Here," he took the calendar down and brought it over to the bed. Greg's drawing was on his dresser and leaning against the wall where he could see it, but he decided he wanted it somewhere closer as soon as he could get pins or tape. 

"I'll mark it for tomorrow. I think I can do one cup. But, oh, that would be a lot of water and applesauce, but it's not as much time with Sherlock, so I think I can manage. What do you think?"

Greg sat down and looked over at John, nodding. 

"It's ambitious, but if you're up for it, I fully believe you can manage it." 

He pointed at the picture. "I'm going to draw you more. You need to see yourself as you are, not like you've got in your head. Thank you for answering me honest and calm, John, that helps so much. It's okay that you'd rather not today. It really is. Listen, I feel a bit dingy. Can we put something on the telly for you so that I can pop into the lav and have a wash? I'll be quick, I just need to, and Paul suggested that you can use dry wipes for now to clean with. I'll leave a pack out here for you to ah, have a bit of privacy. They don't need any liquid. You probably used them in Afghanistan. It's just a stopgap, but it will get you clean for today. That alright?"

"I'll try to speak clearly. I promise. If I'm not, it's not always because I'm panicking, it could just be I'm too tired. I'll keep at it though. Frankly, I don't want you to go, but that's unreasonable. You should. I'm torn between saying you should go there, where you will be close, or to the other, where I won't hear the water." John looked a bit red in the face from effort, and realized he hadn't inhaled in a few moments. After a deep gulp of air he continued. "So you choose. I don't know if I can wash myself with the little wipes, but I probably can. I doubt I'll panic. But I don't want anyone around if I have to take my clothes off."

Greg nodded his understanding. "I tell you what. I'm going to go into this lav here and I'm going to take three minutes in the shower. You time me. After that, I'll stay put, and you can manage to clean up with the wipes. I know you can. There is no water on them, they will not leave you wet. I will not come out of that lav until you let me know you are ready, and Paul will ensure no one walks in this room. You don't even have to wash everything. Just...a swift, hygiene care, okay? Arms and legs and all that can wait. Can you do that?"

"You take your time," John muttered and switched on the Telly. He put on an old sitcom, which would be much louder than the space program, and put the volume on high. 

"I'll be alright. I love you. I'll clean myself up. I can do that much for myself, I hope. You're doing really well with me, Greg. I know I can get a bit difficult, but this is good. Should I call for Paul?"

Greg looked back over at John just before going into the lav. 

"I'll let him know to keep everyone out. I'll not come out of the lav until you call me, okay? Thank you, John," he added honestly, genuinely relieved from the small bit of lucid praise from the man. He walked into the lav and turned on the shower, feeling guilty at the sound of it, setting in on swiftly bathing himself despite his intense want to simply soak in the warmth. 

Outside, Paul took note of the text and posted at the door, ensuring that John would be left to his privacy.

John took his little box of wipes and started on his arms. He was greatly relieved that his body and mind accepted the wipes, and that he didn't have any panic regarding them. It is an awful thing to be afraid of one's own mind, but it was a reality he lived with. Slowly he took off his shirt and hid under the covers. Thankfully he couldn't hear the shower over the loud laugh track and zany conversation on the Telly.

He wiped under his arms and over the raised scars on his chest, though he kept his eyes closed for fear of seeing them open.

Greg killed the taps two and a half minutes after starting in on the shower, having stoppered the drain to allow himself a moment to sit down in the comfort of water. He pressed the heels of his palms into his eyes and took a few slow, deep breaths, silently praying that John would not panic.

He got up few minutes later and dressed, shagging and brushing his teeth before waiting on John to call him.

John finished with his torso and fetched a fresh shirt. When it was time to take his trousers and pants off, he did so very slowly and in a tent made by the covers. He washed himself quickly and tried not to cry, but ended up weeping for a reason he couldn't quite identify. When he was finished, he wrapped the sheet around his waist, went to the drawer, got fresh clothes and brought them back to the safety of his tent to change. 

"I'm alright now," he called in a thick voice and let out a short sniffle. 

Greg came back out, dry and clothed comfortably, noting straight away that John was in bed. he moved over to the telly and dropped the volume down low before moving over to sit at the very edge of the bed. 

"Can I come in there with you?"   
John pulled up the front of the blanket for Greg to crawl in. He had one pillow with him, but did not lie his head down on it. Instead he clung to the pillow with his legs wrapped around it, head down, and arms in a bear hug. 

"I'm alright. I'm fine."

Greg crawled in, watching John working very, very hard to keep himself calm. 

"You are alright," he affirmed, wanting to replace the pillow with his own body and not daring to, "you did great, really great. I'm ready for a bit of a sleep, what about you?" 

Food would wait. John had been pushed enough and the last he needed was to watch Greg eating. 

"Yeah, I know...I'm just...I'm being stupid." 

John slowly released his grip on the pillow and looked at Greg. At the times when he was most lucid and most like his former self, he wondered if he ever bothered the man with his constant need for physical touch. 

"Can I just...can I have a moment? Could you hold me for a moment?"

Greg moved before John even finished speaking, taking the pillow gently away and pulling John to him, "God, yeah. I didn't want to scare you. Here," he offered, opening his arms wide, flopped on his back, "whatever is most comfortable, John." He gave him an honest, relieved smile and wanted nothing more than to fold John into his arms. 

"Makes me feel useful. Helps me calm down too."

John snaked his arms around Greg and wrapped both his legs around one of Greg's. 

"You're so good to me. Thank you for helping me. This helps me so much. I love you. If you ever get tired of me, let me know and...I'll go or something. I know you're a man, and might not want me clinging to you like I do."

_Ah._

Greg shook his head as he bundled John up tight, burying his face in the hair at the top of John's head. "Mate, all that business with blokes and birds...that's not applicable here, yeah? I can't make sense of it and I don't want to. Far as I'm concerned, and to take the words from the mouth of the wisest man I know, it's all fine. It's all fine. Can't imagine the day I get tired of you, put that worry right out of your head." 

John breathed a small sigh of relief. "Thank you. Thank you. I don't want you to suddenly not want me around. Could I...could I tell you something I'm worried about?" 

Greg carded his fingers through John's hair, drawing him in as close as he could. "You can always tell me anything John. Anything." 

John made a small whimper and tucked his face down on Greg's shoulder. "I'm worried that once I'm more...normal, you won't be okay with holding me anymore. I'm worried you'll not want me touching you so much once I am lucid. I know you'll always hold me if I panic, but I'm scared you'll start to push me away once I'm doing better."  
Greg pulled John in closer and scrubbed his fingers at the nape of his neck, running his mind over that. He couldn't very well explain to John that he knew once the man was lucid, he'd want little more to do with Greg outside of a visit or the occasional evening pint. It was like a child telling a parent they'd never want to move out. True in the moment, though it would not be in the long term. 

"John...mate..." he cleared his throat, shaking his head. 'Mate' wasn't going to cover it. "Love. I'm not going to push you away. This isn't...isn't conditional. I mean, yeah, I doubt you'd ever have wanted this under normal conditions but...I'm not...you can be calm and rational, hell you can be lucid for years, and if you still want me, John, then I'll be here. Not..not as charity, but because I honest to god want to be."

John was grateful to hear that he would always have the option to be held, but was still worried about the future. 

"This is going to get very complicated some day, isn't it? When Sherlock is alright but I still want to stay with you. And I'm lucid more and it gets confusing as to how to help Sherlock. Promise me I'll be alright. Please."

Greg cleared his throat and inhaled deeply. "I don't know what's going to happen, John, but I'll be here with you for as long as you want me. You are absolutely going to be alright. I promise you John, you are going to be alright."

John grew tired and nuzzled against Greg again. 

"Good. I'll need you with me for the long run. I'll never be able to live apart from you for long. I know I'll drink and eat regularly one day, and I'll be able to shower. I'll handle knives to cook, but you'll need to be there. I know it."

Greg combed his fingers through John's hair, deeply ready for a nap. "Whatever happens, John. I'm with you." 

 

 

Down the hall, Sherlock stared up at the ceiling, awake and listening to his brother breathing. He'd been trying to work at his mind palace, only to be interrupted again and again with John and the man's bitter disdain. He was no longer crying, too beat down and defeated for tears, slowly beginning to accept the desolate reality that would be his future. 

While Sherlock wrestled with his mind, Mycroft was completely and totally asleep. He had changed, was comfortable, and the lights were dim, but his dreams were far from pleasant, and unaware of his brother’s current state.

Sherlock floated in a place where time and space simply stopped, slugging through memory against his will, pain slowly whispering for his attention. He groaned at one point, shifting and cringing in pain. Perhaps Moran would fetch him, or John would come and hold him until he broke, and then he could watch him leave in disgust. Maybe Miller would sedate him again, wouldn't that be happy?

Miller quietly let himself into Sherlock's room, intent on swapping out Sherlock's medications and leaving again. He was surprised to find Sherlock awake, staring at the hanging fabric. Mycroft was deeply asleep, so he tread lightly, moving into Sherlock's line of sight to gauge his reaction. 

He held up the medication for Sherlock to see, frowning at Sherlock's lack of reaction. Despite that, he gave the meds and then watched over him for a few minutes, making a note to check on him again within the hour. 

Mycroft jerked awake when he heard Miller and looked up groggily. 

"He okay," Mycroft asked rather groggily. 

"He's fine, just giving his medications, he's fine." 

Sherlock turned his head slowly and looked over at Mycroft, staring at the exhausted man. He gave a slow, despondent nod, otherwise not speaking.

Mycroft sat up and rubbed his eyes. His mind was sluggish and he ran through some physics to wake it up. 

"Do you need anything, 'Lock?"

Sherlock stared at his brother for a long time before quietly answering. "No," he whispered, throat tight, mind torturing him minute by minute since he'd been awake. 

"You should s-sleep." 

With a frown of concern, Mycroft swung his legs over the edge of the bed and walked over to Sherlock. 

"I can pull my bed close to yours, or get on yours and hold you if you want."

Sherlock stared at Mycroft, hardly recognizing his own voice as he began to speak, tone flat and very, very quiet. 

"It won't do f-for me to be s-s-o dependant on you. M-Much as...as th-that would..." he closed his eyes, breathing in slowly to keep from becoming openly emotional, feeling the weight of the world pressing in on him. 

"Th-the work will a-always come first. I c-cannot attach." 

Even as he was saying the words, he knew he was lying through his teeth. He was already so dependant on his brother that the idea of Mycroft simply leaving the room made his insides twist. But John was gone, and soon -very soon- Mycroft would be forced to either return to work or step down, and Sherlock knew that he held nowhere near that sort of value. 

No matter how anyone presented it, Sherlock would be left alone far more often than he'd have company, which meant he absolutely had to figure out how to overcome the clawing fear by himself. 

Mycroft sat on the edge of the bed. "You can attach to me. You can always attach to your brother. I won't leave you, and I can bring most of my work in here. You can come with me to my home, and we'll never be apart long." 

The words did not seem enough to comfort Sherlock though. Mycroft clicked his tongue and simply laid down beside Sherlock, wrapping his arms around him gently. 

"Are you alright, brother? You can tell me what is going on, if it would help. I can rest here."

Sherlock closed his eyes and lay very still and very quiet for a long while. With Mycroft so close, the desire to cling to his brother for protection and comfort was nearly overwhelming. The idea of being separated from him was intolerable. It was as though he were to face hours on end without air. He would go mad when this was finally taken from him as well. The temptation to seek a moment of comfort from his brother was far too much with him so close. 

He could not do this. 

"Please go," he breathed, suddenly battling tears. 

"Th-this is not sustainable a-and we both know it. Y-You cannot tolerate m-me on my good days, brother. You will grow tired, and your w-work will demand too much, and I am im-impossible to live with. You will _l-leave me._ " 

He cracked then, pressing a hand over his face as he was forced to remember John walking away with disgust in his expression. There was no doubt in his mind that eventually he’d see that same loathing disgust directed towards him from his brother’s face. It was only a matter of time.

"S-s-soon you will pay s-strangers to s-s-sit with me and th-that will be my- th-that will be all there is f-for me and I-” he paused as tears choked off his voice, “please. I have to l-learn to be afraid alone again. Please." 

Mycroft was silent while his brother spoke. Sherlock's plea broke Mycroft's heart, partially because of how accurate Sherlock’s outlook sounded. He shook his head despite that, determined to attempt and infuse hope. 

"I am going to help you, Sherlock. I am going to help you. I will stay with you until you no longer need me. You know how the government is. They'll take me back. I can get the same amount of work done in one hour that they can in one week. They won't notice that I'm busy." 

He held Sherlock tighter and kissed his temple. 

"I won't pay strangers to sit with you because you have friends. You have Greg and John and Molly and Mrs. Hudson. Wouldn't you like to see them? I can ask them to come while I am busy, and you and I can work together in the same room."

Sherlock’s mind was working through a vicious filter, telling him of the worth he’d lost, the value he no longer held. He shook his head and spoke quietly. 

"M-Molly and Mrs. Hudson are a-absent. M-M-Molly clearly wants nothing t-to do with this and Mrs. H-Hudson will f-fall apart..." he shivered hard, sick at his stomach, just wanting his heart to stop. 

"J-John...left. He'll f-f-force himself to endure me but he- n-no...he w-won't be there. He won't be th-there and by technicality, n-neither will Greg. You w-will go m-mad sitting nursemade to me. Y-You even s-said as much of Greg when he g-gave up his work for John, and he's a goldfish to you. If you want me to live, this is the l-life I m-must accept." 

His breath hitched, caught on a sob. He grit his teeth and forced himself with vicious brutality to shut the hell up already. He could not carry on sniveling to people who did not want him

Mycroft was at a loss as Sherlock broke apart in front of his eyes. 

"I am helping you because I want to. I could have you in a normal hospital and a mental institution like I did with John, but you are more important, obviously, as the main threat, Moriarty, is dead, and I've still got you here. Now logically, that would mean I value you more. I am here personally, even though that isn't necessary, and I am in your room, which also isn't necessary, and I am in bed with you, which isn't necessary. Obviously I am here for a reason. Sentiment. I care about you, Sherlock. I care. You're so strong, and I am never leaving you. I love you. Why would I be here now if I didn't plan on staying?"

Sherlock shoved a knuckle between his teeth, pinching his eyes closed and trying to remain outwardly calm. He was where he was because Moran was a severe threat and had blown up hospitals. It was true that his brother was doing his best now, but as he'd said, it was unsustainable. He narrowly managed to keep his breathing in check, cheeks dry despite the horrible pressure at his throat. There was nothing in his future beyond loss and aching loneliness. 

His motivation to heal was as low as it possibly could be. 

It was in that moment that Miller knocked lightly at the door, joined by the orthopedist. "Mycroft," Miller said quietly, walking into the room and leaving the orthopedist at the door. 

"Dr. Thompson is here to make the adjustments to the pins as we discussed the other day. Sherlock was dosed with his pain medication more than half an hour ago, so now is the ideal time. Unfortunately, today is the latest we could delay this."

Despite the extremely inopportune timing, Mycroft knew this part of Sherlock’s treatment could no longer be delayed. If Sherlock was going to have any chance at mending, these unpleasant procedures had to be done. He curled himself around Sherlock protectively and whispered to him. 

"Another man is going to come help you. He is not going to hurt you. I love you, and I'll be right here."

Mycroft turned his head to the door so his voice wouldn't hurt Sherlock's ears. "He can come in, but come in slowly. If Sherlock doesn't like him, he might have to wait until I speak with him."

Sherlock turned his head, looking to the door and watching as a stout man in his late fifties came in behind Miller. He nodded calmly to both Sherlock and his brother before speaking in a soft, kind voice. 

"As we discussed, the halos are there to help speed healing. They require that the pins be adjusted daily, and as we've missed two days, we'll go a full turn today. Dr. Miller informs that he's given a full dose of dilaudid, but unfortunately as is the case with nearly any orthopedic procedure, nothing is without pain." 

Fear edged up swiftly around Sherlock's mind, his heart galloping in his chest. Pins and pain, twisting and bones. John shuttered him off and left him in a panic and he was alone, now the doctors were there to twist in the pins and he turned his face away, staring at his brother, breathing overly fast. 

"W-what did I do? Please, I'm s-s-sorry, oh god please, please, My _please_ n-no I-" his breathing shot up too fast, panic roaring over him. Thompson started trying to explain what was happening, but Miller shut him up and showed him out without a word, giving Mycroft time with his brother. 

Sherlock could not help the tears, "Please, My! Please not- I c-c-can't oh god I- n-n-not...not...p-pins and- I'm sorry, I'm sorry I'll d-do what you wa-want please, _please!_ " 

Mycroft held Sherlock's head to his chest. 

"You're safe! You've done nothing wrong and I love you. You are safe. This is only to help you. I promise you are not going to be hurt. You won't be hurt. These are just medical devices. Would this..." 

Mycroft stopped himself. He was about to ask if it would be easier for him if John was there, but the combination of pins and John's distress would be difficult for both of them. He texted Paul for advice. 

_Sherlock needs his pins adjusted. Would John's presence be upsetting or helpful?_

"Listen to me. Look at me, Sherlock." Mycroft held his face and pressed their foreheads together. "They won't hurt you. This is not punishment. You have a pillow, a bed, your blue blanket, the green on the walls, and My. It is not a place you are hurt in."

Sherlock clung to his brother, spiraling into panic like a child learning of an inevitable booster jab. 

"Please! I d-don't want th-this, I don't want this! I c-can't, I can't I don't- n-n-no My please, please," he openly and unabashedly begged, his low timbre brought up higher with dread. Paul's text was swift in reply. 

_I cannot imagine John will be able to endure the sight of that, especially if Sherlock is in panic. I'm on my way over. I can bring Greg, that may help._

Sherlock rattled his restraints as he dragged himself closer to Mycroft, shaking terribly, trying to hide in his brother's arms. 

"Please!" he shouted in panicked desperation, sobbing at the thought of spikes twisting down into his bones again, "Oh god no m-more please god, please, My _please!_ " 

Mycroft's heart sank. How could he ignore those desperate pleas? He wanted to tell the doctor to get away, to never come back, but that wouldn't be logical. That would not be reasonable. That would be contrary to the medical goals. 

_Overprotectiveness- Sherlock  
\- Willing to forgo medical necessities to keep him comfortable. _

"You're alright, Sherlock. He is going to come in and you'll be okay." Mycroft called for Miller, despite how awful it made him feel. 

"It's okay, Sherlock. Please trust me."

Miller came in quietly with Thompson, not daring to do the adjustments himself. He drew up a sedative as he listened to Sherlock beg like a man going to his own execution, wishing he could give as large of a dose as earlier. The heavy requirement for pain medication made that impossible. There was no medical need to risk actually knocking him into a conscious sedation with his heart and lungs so weak already, and while he'd factored in the slight pain Sherlock would feel, he'd not anticipated this level of nearly rabid panic. 

"No- My I- you s-said-" Sherlock clipped out, gagging on fear, trembling terribly as sweat broke along his brow and he began to struggle. He was so trapped in panic he could hardly drag in a breath, his words clipped with the lack of air, stuttering as he tried to reason now in a rush. 

Paul was at the door in the next moment, watching as Thompson went to Sherlock's foot, speaking calm and steady to him. 

"Sherlock, the less you fight me the easier this will be," he explained, which would go over well for any other patient than the one he was treating. Sherlock went very quiet as tears streamed constantly down his face without making a sound, teeth grit and sheat white in terror. 

Paul swore under his breath and moved into the room, swiftly telling Thompson to refrain from speaking as he turned the first pin. The pain would not be that great, but to Sherlock, it was enough of a shadowed memory to tear a scream out of him, leaving him sobbing on his back, pulling away from his brother as betrayed anguish slid across his expression. It was blindingly painful for Mycroft to watch, and he held Sherlock as tightly as he dared. 

"Sherlock, it's okay. I swear to you. I am keeping you safe. This is just....this is just medical. All medical. Nothing you can't handle. Please, please just listen to me." 

Mycroft was pleading now, angry with himself for letting this happen. "Sherlock, I promise." Mycroft's voice broke and he shut his eyes. He couldn't bring himself to look at the doctor nor Sherlock's face. 

"I'm trying to help you," he explained, "I'm just trying to do what is right. This is going to help you. I swear. Please, just stay with me. I am here. You are safe."

Thompson worked mercifully swift and while all of the medical personnel in the room knew that Sherlock was not suffering very much physical pain, it was difficult for them to see his mental struggle. Sherlock endured the rest of the procedure in resigned, broken sobbing, much like Paul and Mycroft had watched on the tapes in the times Moran had truly broken him down. 

Sherlock could hardly catch his breath, not at all reacting as Paul placed a mask over his face to help him get air; a palliative measure to ease his discomfort. John had turned on him, utterly abandoned him, and now his brother was next to him as pins twisted in his bones and he choked on his own hell, submitting, limp and shaking terribly. 

When Thompson was done, he and Miller left quietly, doing their best to keep things as calm as they could. 

All said, it had been ten minutes from start to finish. 

Mycroft was exhausted by the end of it. Sherlock's limp, stillness was even worse than the screaming, and Mycroft fought to keep him present. 

"It's okay. It's alright. You're alright. I'm here and you're going to be just fine. Could you speak to me for a bit? I want to know if you understand what just happened."

Paul deeply wished he had more of a rapport with Sherlock before this. For now, all he dared do was take himself out of Sherlock's line of sight, watching closely, ready at any time to text Greg though he was doubtful Greg could help. 

Sherlock spoke in the same flat tone that he responded to Moran in when he finally broke, repeating lines he'd been resisting after pain became too much to endure. 

"Th-th-the pins-s," he breathed, tears sliding heavy and fast down his cheeks, staring up at the ceiling. 

"I d-don't know wh-what I did. Wh-what should I s-s-say?"

Mycroft exhaled shakily and clutched Sherlock. 

"You were not being punished, Sherlock. You were just being treated. There were corrections that needed to be made. You didn't do anything wrong. I love you. Does it still hurt? Are you still in pain? How about some water? I can get you water."

Sherlock looked slowly over to his brother, staring at him for a moment before the numb shock melted away and he broke down hard. 

"I thought I was _safe here!_ You- y-you said...you s-said I w-was safe and y-you said John loves me a-and you sa-said-" he gagged, too much emotion overwhelming him, the bitter tang of fear cloying in the back of his throat, "Y-you s-s-said you'd p-protect me and-" he screamed then, pulling at his hair, utterly terrified, "I th-thought- I th-thought I w-was safe here!"

Mycroft shut his eyes and felt every single word of it like a physical blow. "I...It was just a doctor, Sherlock. 

_Guilt._

"Please, I love you, and I will protect you. I promise. I am keeping you safe. You are safe here. You needed to be worked on medically. They were helping you so that you could walk properly someday. I never meant to hurt you. Please believe me." Mycroft was shivering, trying to control his grief.

_GUILT!_

Sherlock was swiftly losing his grip on consciousness, the sheer energy it had taken to fight his restraints and endure the fear having drained his reserves. 

"F-f-first John s-s-sends them an-and n-now...I th-thought...I thought..." he kept his face protected by the bend of his elbow, gripping the back of his head, trying to hide as he wept in terrible loss. 

Paul inhaled slowly, watching this whole scene play out. Mycroft was steadily losing his grip on himself. Sherlock was slurring and it seemed likely he'd be asleep soon. 

"I n-n-need s-s-someone t-to w-want me!" Sherlock cried out from where he was hiding his face, "I c-c-can't...c-an't d-d-o this...I- th-thought...wh-why won't y-you just let me go? P-please, I'm s-scared just..." his words broke down into exhausted tears as Sherlock nearly fell asleep. 

"Sherlock, it's My." Mycroft started simply, "You are in a secure facility. Nobody here will hurt you. What you felt was not torture, it was a medical procedure. It was not your fault. You did not do anything to anger anyone." Mycroft kept his voice as gentle and calm as he possibly could and stroked Sherlock's hair. 

"You're okay. It's over. That was just doctors, Sherlock. They didn't do that to hurt you."

Sherlock slowly dropped off to sleep with tears on his face, whispering over and over again that he was afraid until he was finally unconscious.

Paul exhaled slowly and collected a thin bed sheet, opening it up and draping it over the metal halos. A few of the places where the pins broke through the skin were slightly bloodied, but that was to be expected with the procedure. 

"Perhaps if he cannot see them, it will help. Can't do much for his arm, but maybe the legs will be better. Breathe, Mycroft, this will not always be so traumatic for him." 

Mycroft was grateful when Sherlock finally dropped off to sleep, but it was devastating that he couldn't calm his brother before he did. He wasn't handling this as well as he had hoped, and he reminded himself of his limits. 

"I need someone to advise me medically of what is necessary. If I continue downward, I will be tempted to go with what is comfortable for him instead of what is right."

Paul nodded, "Alright, Mycroft. Thompson and Miller will come in and speak with you, but this is as they briefed us after he came out of surgery. While frightening, it is the fastest way for him to regain use of his limbs. It's not overly painful, I believe this is just intensely triggering for him. Moran favored...metal rods and pins, and Sherlock is well accustomed to the sight of them. His confusion regarding John compiled with the fear of the procedure likely tipped off this reaction. Perhaps you would consider speaking with Greg, who is now well seasoned in matters of this nature." 

Sherlock shifted, obviously sleeping shallow and rough. He dragged in a stuttering breath before quieting again. 

Mycroft nodded. "My only worry is that I will make wrong decisions because of my emotional attachment. All I ask is that one of you keeps tabs on it, and if I seem to be slipping, inform me." 

He had to let go of all his pride to request it, but this wasn't about him. He could not entertain such obstacles like his own pride when Sherlock's mental and physical well being were on the line. 

"I understand that this is for the best. Perhaps if we could find some way to distract or heavily medicate him, it would help. If you would, I believe John has a documentary about space that Sherlock would appreciate.”

Paul settled the sheet over Sherlock's legs and stepped closer to the door. "I understand. Miller will let you know if he disagrees with your medical directives. I'll go fetch the disk, I know which one you are referencing. I'm sure John will be happy to share." 

He turned then to leave, quietly shutting the door behind him. Despite how softly he handled the latch, Sherlock cried out, eyes snapping open as he curled back in on himself, immediately starting to cry as he pulled at his hair. 

"No, no, Sherlock, it's okay." Mycroft gently coaxed his hands away from his hair and held it tight. 

"Sherlock, listen to me. I am here for you. Nobody will hurt you." 

His own mind was beginning to latch on to the idea of comforting Sherlock at all costs, and he quickly corrected himself mentally. He needed to remain objective. 

"You're safe. You are here with me."

Sherlock tried to pull away at first, fear cracking through him as he shouted, trembling hard in his confusion. His limbs buzzed with dull pain, muted by narcotics, and he jerked at his restraints as he sobbed. It took a moment to realize Mycroft was beside him and he fumbled hard, reaching back for him, grabbing a fist full of his shirt as he pulled as close as he could to his brother. 

"M-My! I'm sorry-y, please! I'm s-s-sorry, don't l-let...n-no more d-doctors! Pl-please!" 

"Okay, no more doctors. No more. It's okay. No more doctors at all. You're safe now." He held Sherlock's head to his chest and wrapped himself around his little brother as if becoming a shield to protect him from harm. 

"I really am going to help you. You can trust me. Please, Sherlock, try to understand."

Sherlock shuddered as Mycroft shielded him, sinking down into the bedding and gratefully allowing his elder brother the protective position he'd adopted. He clung to his sibling, not understanding what he'd done to earn the treatment earlier but intensely relieved that he'd been given a reprieve for now. 

"Th-thank you, god thank...thank y-you. I'll do b-b-better, I'll..I..." he had no idea what to offer, what Mycroft had wanted. Sherlock whimpered at the loss of words to offer and shivered hard, "p-please I'll...I'll do b-better just t-t-tell me wh-what you want a-and-" 

He shuddered and sobbed against his brother's chest, confused and frightened. 

"I am not hurting you. You did everything right. You're not doing anything wrong, and you don't need to do better. I love you, alright? I love you. What is happening right now is you had a medical procedure that triggered memories of your torment. It was not punishment." 

Mycroft could feel his brother's broken sobs shaking the bed slightly and pulled him closer. "I promise you."

Sherlock began slowly repeating Mycroft's words, trying to understand what was being said to him. He whispered to himself, over and over again between panicked, fearful breaths, his head throbbing with fear. 

"M-me-medic-cal..." he shook his head, not understanding. "Please..I...th-the pins I- it's f-f-frightening to...I c-can't please m-m-make them s-s-stop I don't want..I d-d-didn't know they w-were going to...to tw-twist-" he gagged on the word as a flood of imagery poured over his mind and he grit his teeth, trying to endure the chaos. 

"Help, h-help My, I n-need h-help." 

"You had a medical procedure that triggered memories of your torment. You had a _medical procedure._ It's okay now. Nobody hurt you, not really. Are you still in pain? Does it still hurt?" 

Mycroft wasn't going to let this one go so easily. He wanted Sherlock to understand. "Medical procedure. It is over now. It was not a punishment."

Sherlock shook his head, trying to mesh what his brother was trying to tell him with what his mind was screaming. 

"H-how is...no- I..I c-can't _work w-with that_ how do I m-make them s-s-stop? I-" he pulled at his brother, nearly shaking him. "Please," he breathed, defeated and deeply frightened, "please don't l-lie to me." There had to be something he’d done to be so terribly handled, which would enable him to stop that from happening again in the future. 

"You don't need to work with it. You need to trust me. Why would I hurt you? You are my brother. I love you. I am only getting you the medical attention you need in order to walk again. Don't you want that?" 

Mycroft was beginning to think that he deserved this for not keeping Sherlock safe in the first place. 

Sherlock went very quiet for a moment, struggling with what his brother was telling him. He'd trusted Mycroft and then he'd been held down while doctors twisted pins into his body. Only that might not be what he thought, and he could hardly get his mind around the memories of thrashing on that loathsome table, twisting in agony. 

He could hardly do anything about it now. So he clung to Mycroft and tried to breathe properly, sweating and trembling as he spoke honestly through tears, "I d-don't understand. Pl-please don't let them h-hurt me today. I l-love you. P-please forgive me. K-k-keep me safe, I th-thought I was s-safe. Please. I'm so damn tired of b-being afraid." 

"I'll never hurt you," Mycroft insisted. "I am protecting you. See? I'm here. It was a medical procedure that triggered unpleasant memories. Nobody tortured you. You are safe with me." Mycroft was propped up on his elbows and curled over Sherlock like a human shield, as if there really was someone trying to hurt him. 

They remained that way for a long time, with Sherlock not fully able to think and his brother providing comfort and protection that Sherlock was soon to loose. Those thoughts were not in his head though as proper sleep finally came for him. He drifted off with one hand wrapped desperately in his brother’s shirt, blissfully oblivious to the world around him.


	12. Blisters

Paul held off walking into John's room for another hour, wanting to let them rest before finally knocking on the door. Greg woke immediately and heard him through the door. Not wanting John to feel frightened, he asked him gently if he could come in. 

John sat up and stretched a bit before settling back down onto his warm spot of blankets and Greg's chest. 

"Sure. If you want."

Greg called for Paul as he cuddled John, whispering love to him in a lazy, sleep heavy voice, content and pleased with the day so far. They'd already accomplished so much. His stomach growled, and he ignored it, cracking open an eye and looking up at Paul as he walked in. 

Paul smiled at the two, addressing John. "Hey there, John. I was wondering if I could borrow that documentary you've been watching? The one on the universe?"

John sat up as best he could without leaving his spot of warmth and nodded. "For Sherlock? He always found problems with it. They were a few light years off, or the image wasn't shown with compensation for the way it distorts as it spins...But yeah, you can have it." 

John was almost eager to talk now that it didn't bring him such great pain. It was lovely to be able to speak about normal things while lucid. 

Paul nodded, moving over to the stand with the television and looking through the stack of disks and speaking as he did so. 

"Yeah, thank you, John. Do you know of anything else he might like? That will keep him...calm? Know any music or...anything really? We got his blanket like you suggested, and I hung a sheet on the wall. We are still...it's the early days for him still, so.." he trailed off, not particularly wanting to upset John, though he was extremely keen on helping settle Sherlock down. 

Greg sat up as well, watching Paul move. Something had clearly happened. "He okay?" Greg asked as he lazily trailed fingers over John's back. 

Paul nodded, "Medically he's okay." 

John looked a bit anxious, but didn't want to let anything ruin his calm. 

"Uhm...He got into crap telly, but looking back, he might have only watched it because I did. He needs to keep occupied. His brain went to shit on a good day if he had nothing to do. Not sure what he could do...When can I visit him? I'm supposed to see him for fifteen minutes today."

Paul turned around to face John with the disk in his hand. It was the _supposed to_ that prompted him to speak. He walked over and crouched down so that he could be eye level with John. 

"John, I think it's...a very good show of your want to get better that you're making yourself visit Sherlock. It's very brave of you. I don't know that today is the best day to do that." 

John didn't like the idea of going against his calendar. It was how he kept track, how he measured his progress. 

"I...I shouldn't..." John shook his head and crossed his arms. "Unless he says he doesn't want me, I'll go. And you have to ask him before you decide he doesn't."

Paul cleared his throat and looked to Greg before speaking very quietly to John. "He doesn't know where he is, and he thinks he's been tortured with everyone's blessing. I don't want him to scare you." 

_I don't want you to hurt him._

"You're worried I'll panic and mess it up." John looked down. "I'd be insulted, but it's probably true. But I won't get any better if I don't try, and I can't only be there during the good times. Maybe...Greg could come, and then if I panic bring me away."

Paul shook his head, trying to help John understand. "No, John, I'm afraid the both of you will scare the other. He's already in severe distress. If you think you can be a help to him, then by all means, please go see him. He's had his pins adjusted today. I'm sure I don't need to explain why that's been...exceedingly difficult for him to understand. He is not lucid or rational, and he's even stressing his brother. If you feel up to trying, I'll not stop you. I know Greg will go with you." 

At the mention of pins, John cringed. "Yeah...Yeah, those...Medical. It's just.." John shook his head and brushed his hands over his hair. "That would be upsetting. Moran liked the pins. They both liked the pins. Bones are really sensitive." 

The choppy, childish sentences were back once more and he breathed into Greg's shoulder for a moment. 

"But he'll be okay, right? Maybe I'll just stop by for a moment."

Paul smiled at him gently. "John, I know your intentions are good, but he's very scared right now and I don't know how well he'll tolerate watching you leave. He did not handle it very well last time. If you truly want to go see him, I'll not stop you. I know you've your calendar, and if you want to see him for a moment who knows? Perhaps it will help." 

"I'm going to go and say hello. I'll only stay if he wants me to stay. If he wants me to leave, I'll leave." John kicked at his blankets until they were off and got up out of bed. He took Greg by the hands and made a valiant effort of helping him up. 

"Come on. Let's go now!"

Greg was not at all sure of this plan but was not about to stop John, moving as swiftly as he could to follow him. He allowed John to lead him down the hall, Paul at their backs as they cleared security, following the well worn path to Sherlock's room. Greg stopped John just outside the door, wrapping him in a firm hug and whispering in his ear.

"I love you, I'm so proud of you. If it starts getting bad, we can step out into the hall. Don't wait until you are losing yourself, okay? Remember that I am here, and Sherlock is safe, and he's just new at this." 

Paul moved past them, wanting to speak to Mycroft first. He opened the door and took note of Sherlock startling hard awake, hypersensitive to sound, his restraints rattling slightly as he tried to pull himself into a ball under the protective shield of his brother. 

"John is outside," Paul explained to the brothers. 

Mycroft hesitated. While Sherlock always responded well to John, he was worried that one of them might set the other off. 

"Alright. But be careful." 

John heard him from outside the door and took a deep breath. "I'll be fine," he said without a trace of confidence in his voice. He walked inside and took stock of the situation. There was a sheet over Sherlock, but he could tell there were pins. His arm was looking a bit better, but still… _Don't focus on the injuries._

John advanced until he was just a few feet away and cleared his throat. "Hey, Sherlock."

Sherlock held his breath when John's voice slid around him, spiking fear through him abruptly. He did not dare move, expecting a doctor to follow up at any moment. John had swiftly come to mean pain of one form or another and he had no idea what to do or say to protect himself, aching for the man he used to know, the safety he used to enjoy. He whimpered from his locked up position, shaking and confused, forcing himself to speak. 

"J-John," he breathed, narrowly keeping himself from sobbing. 

John walked over to the foot of his bed where he could see. "It's me. Actually me. No recording or voice or movie thing. Right here. Paul didn't want me to come because I might scare you. But I came anyway because I was worried about you and I wanted to see how you were. Are you alright? Greg drew me this morning. It's really good. You should have him draw you sometime."

Sherlock was clenching his teeth so hard they creaked in his ears, acid licking up the back of his throat as his heart slammed against the inside of his chest. John had abandoned him, what was he doing back here already? Sherlock pulled harshly on Mycroft without realizing what he was doing, groaning with fear. 

"Th-th-they a-l-l-ready...al-already c-c-came...p-p-please I c-can't anymore t-today. P-l-ease...J-ohn pl-pl-ease d-" he gagged, pressing his face to the bedding as his gut twisted. "M-My t-t-tell h-him I'm s-s-" his words broke over a frightened sob as he struggled to catch hold of a deep enough breath to speak again. 

Paul looked over to John and spoke to him softly. "It's not you. He's been like this all morning, he's afraid of everyone. It's not you specifically." 

John realized what was going on and his face twisted. 

"No! Sherlock, I didn't have anyone hurt you! I never sent the doctors, or anyone. Remember? I care about you." John walked around to the side Mycroft was not curled up in and stood with his hands clasped behind him in parade rest. 

"You're not going to be hurt when I am here, remember? I am keeping you safe. I am protecting you. I won't let them hurt you in any way."

Sherlock tugged hard at Mycroft simply because he had a handful of his shirt, trying to make himself smaller and less of a target. His breathing was chaotic as his heart rate tripped over itself, lost and confused. This was what John had done before, had been so kind to him before his eyes blocked him out and he'd turned and walked away. They'd been laughing with one another, and then, just like that, John had shut him out. 

Even if he was safe, it wouldn't last. 

"Y-y-you're s-still going t-t-to walk aw-away and th-they'll come b-back and-" he dragged in a panicked breath, "y-you just w-w-want to leave. You don't l-like me an-anymore." 

John didn't quite know how to respond to that, and he didn't think it was a good idea to just run his mouth. Seeing as that was about all he knew to do, he did so regardless. 

"Yeah, I might, but I'll just go down that hall, and I'll come back. It's not like I'll be gone forever. It won't be like Africa. Besides, I'm here now. Can we just be happy about that?" 

Last time had been _loads_ better. 

"Last time I held you. Should I do that again, or would it hurt you?"

Sherlock pulled hard at Mycroft, narrowly breathing as John's words struck like blows. He was sweating with fear, ears ringing as he anticipated the fallout. He had pins in his body and John was angry, Mycroft had allowed the doctors at him, and he was restrained. There was no escape. He whimpered in defeat as slow tears began to roll down his cheeks, wanting nothing more than to curl up with John and relax, to touch that peace that he'd been given for a few blissful minutes the last time he'd come. 

"Y-you're g-g-going to...to..." he shook his head, sobbing quietly as nausea twisted in his gut. 

"I...Is that a no, or..?" John dropped his head into his hands and counted to ten. 

_One.  
Sherlock is upset because of the medical procedures. _

_Two.  
He is in pain, but not being hurt. _

_Three.  
Nobody is going to hurt me. _

_Four.  
I am not in danger. _

_Five.  
I need to help Sherlock._

_Six.  
I can hold Sherlock without coming to any harm myself. _

_Seven.  
I need to be useful._

_Eight.  
He came for me in the end. _

_Nine.  
He did this to save me. _

_Ten.  
I need to help him._

John reached forward and put his hand on Sherlock's shoulder. "Would you mind if I hugged you?"

Sherlock could not help but lean into John’s hand, wanting contact with John more than he wanted water or medicine. He knew John had no desire to be near him, but he was weak, and god how he was lonely, and John had given him a brief reprieve before he'd hurt him the last time. He forced himself to uncurl his fingers from Mycroft, looking to his brother with fear in his eyes, needing assurance as he spoke to John. 

"Y-y-you...pl-please don't h-hurt me," he breathed, even as he reached for John with his only free, trembling hand.

Mycroft eased up a bit and wrapped his arms around his chest underneath Sherlock's own so he had a bit more freedom. 

"It's alright, 'Lock. He won't hurt you."

John had despair on his face. "No, Sherlock, I'd never hurt you. Never. I never will hurt you." He leaned over and gave him as good of a hug as he could manage, but did not draw away. "You're okay. I've got you, and Mycroft's got you." 

Sherlock leaned into John as much as he was able, hating himself for doing so. He was like a kicked dog rushing back to his owner, tail between his legs, pathetically desperate for comfort. He pinched his eyes closed, terrified to see the moment when John remembered how deeply he hated him. His brother was calling him by his childhood endearment, which meant that Mycroft was at least not angry with him. He may even protect him when John's patience ran thin. Sherlock could not calm the way he was shaking though, and he carefully wrapped his hand in John's sleeve. 

"I-I'm s-s-sorry I f-fa-i-led you J-John. I-" he could not do it just then. He'd run out of ways to apologize, run out of words to voice his regret and his sorrow. John's hate was as ingrained as his scars and Sherlock had lost hope. He was greedy for these moments when John forgot, still willing to touch Sherlock at all. He longed for the mental ability to store the details of the way John touched him, trying to calm himself down long enough to enjoy whatever John would allow him. 

John whimpered and closed his eyes. This sadness was hammering away at his already delicate emotional balance. 

"You didn't fail me. You couldn't have known I was being taken. You couldn't have known. I'm not angry with you about it, I promise." He dropped his head down next to Sherlock's and put his face near his shoulder. John was careful not to inhale too deeply, as that would surely send him into a panic. 

It took him several moments to come up with something to say, but once he started the rambling didn't stop.

"Remember how you said I was like a mountain? I was feeling really bad and that helped me because now I'm not all ugly and scarred I'm a cliff face and I've won. It helped me so much. But I don't think you see that you're a mountain too."

Sherlock forced himself to remember the way John's expression had suddenly shuttered him out without warning or reason as John spoke so softly to him, offering him kindness like bread to a man starving. He was glad to hear that John remembered anything positive in association with him at all, but it did very little to set him at ease. Directly after Sherlock had supposedly comforted John with those words, John’s eyes had gone hard and he’d remembered how deeply he loathed Sherlock. 

"'m n-no mountain-n," he breathed, deeply despising himself for having had this and then losing it through his own _idiotic_ failures. John was near him, but in a way that was so painfully guarded that Sherlock knew he was still causing John pain. If he was still hurting John, then John would send in the doctors, and god only knew what they'd do the next time they came in. "'m j-just...n-n-nothing. I'm n-nothing. No o-one." 

"You're smart," John offered. 

But that wasn't right. Of course Sherlock was smart. He had been told that by everyone, and not always as a compliment. Perhaps repetition had dulled it. 

"You're kind. Well, you were a bit of an ass, but not really. Not at the heart of it. You're clever, and fun, and you're loyal. Jesus, you're loyal. You went willingly to them to save me. I am so sorry that happened to you, and I guess I never said thank you.... So, thank you. For everything. For all the things you did. Greg said it was you who got me tapping. That's really smart of you. And loyal. You're not a nobody. You're not nothing. You were the center of my life back then, and a big part of it now. I love you. I'm here with you. If I could take your pain away and bear it myself, I would. I'd have taken your pain for you if they asked. I wish I could have."

Sherlock had a sudden image of the moon, circling around the earth. Abruptly another plant slammed into watery blue, knocking it out of orbit, replacing it as the moon happily swapped to the next celestial body. 

John didn't care one whit about his loyalty or his cleverness. He decidedly did not love him. He gladly and readily inflicted pain on Sherlock as soon as he remembered how much he despised him. 

"Y-you should n-n-never have felt p-p-pain like th-this-" he nearly choked on the words, shaking hard, his limbs sending him the shadow of pain around the entry points of the pins, "e-ever. M-my ff-fault. Th-this ha-happened to y-you because I'm a _f-f-freak,_ " he spat the word with all the self-loathing he was soaking in, forming it into letters and pushing it past his lips in the shape of the curse everyone hurled at him but John. 

John used to like him. 

John used to love him. 

"I h-h-hurt ev-ever-ything I l-love. I'm n-n-not s-posed t-to love. I _kn-know be-tter._ "

John shook his head and buried his fingers in Sherlock's hair. 

"No, Sherlock, no. Listen to me. Listen to me right now. You are not a freak. And...A freak is just something different! Why is being different such an insult? Why do people throw around a word that means different like it should hurt? Sherlock, you're not a freak. And if you are, so am I. None of this is normal. We...Just.." 

John put one hip on the bed and leaned over Sherlock. "You're not a freak. This is not your fault. You are supposed to love! Don't start with that! If you love someone, you should tell them. You should tell them exactly what is going on in your head so they don't leave thinking that you don't care." 

John's voice broke and he wiped his hand across his eyes. "That's not what you should do. You are allowed to love, Sherlock. You can love. And you can let me love you without being frightened of what comes next."

Oh _god_ did Sherlock want those words to be true. He could practically feel the judgement rolling off his brother in waves as he quoted back the reasons John was wrong, lessons long ago learned, now rote. 

"N-no I c-can't. If- if-" he had not realized how desperately he began to cry until he tried to explain, to give Mycroft's words back to John. He struggled to catch his breath, aching terribly for the man above him, so drenched in regret he could not fill his lungs. He'd done the wrong thing then in not telling John, and as a result he'd catastrophically ruined them. It was a pain so bitter he was nearly sick, stars cracking along the edge of his vision. 

"If I h-h-ad just s-st-stayed away he wouldn't h-have hurt you! Even at th-that distance he st-still...I- l-look wh-what I d-did! I h-h-hurt everyone and-" he dragged in a shuddering breath as he forced himself to look at John again. 

"I sh-should have told you? Y-You...you...all th-the woman and...you...you said you were n-n-not...in-interested and...I th-thought y-you'd leave in disgust and- I... c-coward. I am a c-coward. I f-failed. I _failed_." 

John was beginning to shudder. He shook his head and did his very best not to call for Greg. "You're not a coward."

_Am I a coward? Who calls me villain?_

John scrunched his nose up and wondered where he remembered the quote from. His mind was doing its best to protect him, and right now that meant distractions. 

"I'm glad we became friends. I was dying anyway. It was worth it. You're...You saved me, really. I promise you, you saved me. And then, as soon as you knew, you came and saved me again. I wouldn't have left in disgust. I don't know how I would have responded, but I know I wouldn't have left. I care about you so much. Please, could you look at me for a moment?"

Sherlock felt John going stiff and was completely terrified to look at him. He shivered and turned his eyes up at him anyhow, greedily taking in whatever moments were left of John looking at him without disdain. 

John smiled at him then, genuinely smiled, eyes crinkling around the edges and lips parted. 

"Remember how you used to play violin for me when I couldn't sleep? Thank you for that. It means a lot. Next time you could just come up and say hello. And if you're having a bad dream, you can call and I'll come help you."

Sherlock's brows knit and he stared at John in open question, tears sliding hot and fast down the sides of his face. John looked...honest. John knew that he played for him when he was hurting. 

John knew he'd never play again. 

John was saying _next time you could just come up_ as though Sherlock would be somewhere he might hear John sleeping. 

"I- I d-don't understand. You...w-" he swallowed hard, his heart fluttering in his chest, "want m-me? I...th-thought I h-had to l-l-live somewhere e-else...you d-don't l-l-like me wh-what...what a-are you s-saying?"

John was trying so very hard to be positive and lucid. It took vast amounts of self awareness to get this far, and it was beginning to drain him. 

"Currently, our living arrangements are in the air. I used to be nervous about speaking, and now I'm fine with it. Doesn't bother me in the slightest. Soon, you'll be telling me to shut up again. I know I was afraid of you. I am sorry about that. I am not anymore. I am improving and at this rate I'll probably be able to live like we did before, or you'll live in the flat next door. We can be close. I promise you. I _promise_ you." 

Sherlock dropped his eyes away as sadness draped over the spark of hope like a wet blanket. He nodded, staring at John's arm. He was quiet as he tried to let that settle. 

Visits. Tea. _Neighbors._

He wanted to scream. 

"I...I-I'm g-glad the t-t-tapping helped. I'm s-sorry I l-lied about wh-who I was...I c-couldn't leave you al-alone you were so sc-scared. I...o-okay...y-you'll v-visit sometimes and I'll...I'll...l-live...s-somewhere and it...it will be o-okay...it will be...be ok-kay," he was trying to soothe himself again, shivering as he looked back at John. 

"Y-you're ab-bout to l-leave me..." he whispered, his chest tightening up in panic. He could hear it in John's tone, the careful restraint he was using, the overwhelming self control. He swiftly closed his eyes, remembering the expression he was soon to get. 

John dropped his head. He had expected something positive, some small flicker of hope, but no matter what he did, it only made Sherlock worse. "No. I'm not about to leave you." In truth, he was, but his resolve had just been strengthened. "You've one of my favorite shows in here. The one about space. Let's put that on." 

Mycroft nodded and called Paul. "Sherlock, that's a good idea. Why don't you two relax and watch a film?"

Greg's eyes widened as John made a suggestion that would likely keep him in Sherlock's company for at least the next hour, unless he openly decided to put an end to the visit and leave. 

Sherlock opened his eyes again, staring up at John, searching his face for duplicity or deception. His eyes cut to the door, watching for it to swing open, holding his breath. 

Paul set to getting the film up on the small screen beside Sherlock's bed, dimming the lights without speaking, wanting to let Sherlock and John control the room. When the into to the documentary began to play, Sherlock looked back up to John, hope washing over his expression. 

"Y-you're st-staying? W-with me?" 

There it was. That small flicker of hope that John had been looking for. He breathed a sigh of relief and sat down on the edge of the bed. "Can we sit up a bit? I know it hurts to be on your back."

Mycroft used the little remote to slowly bring the back of Sherlock's bed up a few degrees until it was more of a reclining chair. 

"I'll stay. I'm going to stay." John kept his eyes glued on the screen for the next few minutes, one arm on Sherlock, trying to keep himself calm.

Sherlock did not give a damn about the show, keeping his focus on John. The man was clearly torturing himself and Sherlock allowed himself the moment to puzzle out why. He closed his eyes, keeping the mental image of John doing his best to forget where he was, attempting to separate the emotion from the facts. 

_It hurts him to be here._

_He doesn't like you._

_He doesn't want you hurt. He equates that with love._

_He hurts every time he leaves. He sends doctors._

_....Conflicting data_

_Moran told you this would happen._

_Pins_

_Pain_

_Loss_

Sherlock whimpered quietly and began to lean towards John for comfort before remembering himself, going very still. 

"Y-You always kn-know what hurts. Th-thank you for g-getting me off my b-back," he breathed, wanting to ask why John was hurting himself by staying, not at all brave enough to shape the words. 

John desperately wanted to keep his attention on the movie. He had one arm around Sherlock and had brought his legs up to the very edge. Mycroft had receded a bit to give them room, but it was still crowded. If one took out the pained expressions, the pins and scars, and the brother on the other side, they might almost look like a peaceful, normal pair of blokes watching a program together. "I know what hurts because the same things hurt me," John responded gently. 

"Look, Sherlock, that's the one you used to always correct." John pointed to the screen at the picture of a galaxy. 

Sherlock looked down and away, worried that he'd upset John. He'd been trying to acknowledge their shared pain, failing miserably. The image on the screen twisted in a way that made physics scream and Sherlock stared at the screen, remembering in full the conversation they'd had. He'd exacerbated John so deeply that night. Why did he always have to push?

He went very still and very quiet, knowing John wanted him to shut up, staring down at the blanket over his body. 

"I remember you said something about...light? Coming slower from the back or...not slower...gets here later and it's moving so it gets distorted? I don't know. I just like the pictures." John looked over and realized Sherlock looked uncomfortable. The show had only been going on for a few moments and already John was feeling like a complete and utter failure. 

_You're a fuck-up, Johnny-boy. Pathetic. I thought I'd get more fight out of you than this. But I suppose that's what I get for playing with ordinary people._

The rich, soft voice sounded so real to him that John jumped and covered his ears with his hands. 

Sherlock's attention went sharply to him. "J-John?" he whispered, reaching out and gently wrapping his fingers around John's wrist. 

"Wh-what did you just hear?" 

Greg nearly toppled his chair over as he shot across the room, going to John's side and wrapping an arm around his shoulder. 

John hummed loudly to himself and shook his head, eyes squeezed shut. He was already rocking himself, though not consciously aware of the effort. 

"Heard 'em again. Just...I'm sorry, Sherlock." John kept his hands firmly pressed over his ears and eyes shut as if expecting a bomb to go off. Once the voice had ceased to pester him for a minute, John slowly opened his eyes. 

"I'm trying," he said to Sherlock, suddenly pleading. "I'm trying so hard. But they won't _shut up._ "

Sherlock let go of John and nodded, guilt ripping through him. 

"I-I'm...I'm your pins," he whispered, eyes to the floor. He grit his teeth as helplessness wrapped around him, watching the wall go up that he could not breach. 

"I s-see Moran...every day. Ri-right there," he breathed, pointing to the corner. He left out how frequently John made an appearance. 

"H-he is very loud. L-Laughs at me a-all the time."

John shook his head at that.

"You aren't my pins, Sherlock, I just-"

_SHERLOCK!_

John yelped and clamped his hands back over his ears. God, that was unsettling. It dragged back the pain he associated with the man and he briefly wondered why he wasn't struggling. 

"Tell me about the space thing," John requested through gritted teeth. "Please? Might help."

Sherlock mouthed _the space thing_ in confusion before remembering the telly. He jerked and then nodded, trying to get his mind in order. 

"R-red shift," he whispered, "it's a-all roses b-because of exp-pansion. We a-are the c-center of our v-viewable universe and wh-what we can s-see changes as the ti-time goes by and the li-light travels further. Every-ything is moving away and it b-bends the light so it l-l-looks red unless it's coming t-towards us. B-blue then. Blue. Tighter wavelengths..." 

He slid his hand up into his hair, pulling tight with his eyes pinched closed, hating what he was doing to John as he desperately tried to explain. 

John nodded and exhaled slowly. "Yeah, that's the one. Redshift. Got it. Red is backwards, blue is forward. Red is backwards, blue is forward." 

John slowly moved his hands away from his ears for the second time and tried to regain composure. Greg's arm helped, but he was determined not to run to the man just yet. 

"Thanks. I'll remember that. I promise. I'll remember that and you won't have to explain it again. I'm sorry. I'm just...you know how it is. They just interrupt."

Sherlock nodded, still gripping his hair, though he looked up at John cautiously. 

"I h-hate that I scare you. I wi-wish..." he shook his head and closed his eyes again, rocking himself slightly in effort to soothe the ache in his heart. He was pushed back enough that he was not at all touching John anymore, much as he wanted to. 

"I'm s-sorry," he whispered, so deeply meaning it the words felt like he was scraping them out of his own chest, "I- I'm s-s-sorry, John. All of it. E-everything. B-before A-Africa, before..." 

Sherlock bit down on his lip and shut himself up for a moment. "Y-You just h-h-have to t-tell them to piss off. They...s-surely they will st-stop some day." 

"Don't be sorry. Don't. It's not your fault." John covered his face with his hands and his shoulders shook. "I'm trying," he lamented and could feel tears burning in his eyes. John tried to keep them down, and brushed his eyes as if they itched. 

"I'm being stupid. I'm sorry. I'm bad at this. I'm terrible. I'm so _fucking worthless_." John's voice cracked and he began to weep, curling in on himself in shame. He wasn't in pain, so who was he to cry? John shook his head again and took a deep breath. 

"Sorry, I shouldn't be s-so bad at this. I-I'm tryin-ng, I p-promise."

Fear spiked through Sherlock as John began to cry. When John left upset, Sherlock was punished for it. He reached out, not quite touching John, his hand quaking as though he was freezing. 

"N-No," he breathed, "John please, you're n-not worthless. You- I- y-you are w-worth my l-life, whatever v-value that had, and...and...Greg's l-life...and M-Mycroft's regard and oh please, pl-please d-don't be upset, John. I sh-should have been quiet. I'll b-be quiet, I'm-" John had said not to apologize, so he would not. He grit his teeth and closed his eyes, heart slamming against his ribs. 

What were they going to do to him this time? 

"You're n-not bad, John, please don't c-cry." 

John began to sling curses at himself for upsetting Sherlock, which honestly didn't help. "I'm so sorry," he breathed, "I'm trying, I just..." John rocked himself back and forth for a moment before slowly stopping. 

"I am trying to stay calm. It is very difficult for me." Each word was pronounced perfectly with just a bit too much time between.

John was still in great distress, but he saw the need to keep calm for Sherlock's sake, and quieted his tears. 

"I'm trying. I'm sorry. I came here to help you and now I'm just being a fuck-up and ruining everything like I always do and I'm hurting you and I don't want to but I don't know how not to. Just tell me what you want me to do."

Sherlock could hardly breathe. He was incapable of following the logic, of following the potential behavior with his mind so damaged. Even on a good day Sherlock rarely understood the behavior of others and now John was in pain because Sherlock was in pain and the loop was too terrible for him to handle. He nearly gagged, pulling hard on his hair, skin pricking in anticipation of the pain he knew was coming. 

"I- I d-don't know," he whispered helplessly, "I don't th-think you're a f-fu-fuck up, I- I- pl-please d-don't h-hate me I-" 

He whimpered in panicked distress, guarding his head and his neck as best he could, trying to figure out how to keep himself safe. 

John grit his teeth and willed his mind through the fog. "You...I...I am trying really hard..." John's breath hitched and a small sob escaped him. "But it's h-hard because I-I can't think straight." 

John saw the look of anticipated pain on Sherlock's face and in his posture and touched his cheek. "Hey, h-hey, look at me for a second. L-look at me." He tilted Sherlock's chin and pleaded for a straight answer. "I don't feel good. I-I d-don't want to scare y-you if I-I get worse. D-Do you w-want me to l-leave?"

Sherlock groaned, his heart tripping over itself. No, he decidedly did not want John to leave, but what was he to do knowing that he was hurting him? 

"I-" he sobbed, closing his eyes and pulling so tight on his hair that the strands began to break loose, "I d-don't want to h-hurt you. You d-don't have to stay," it was the best he could do in his chaos, struggling to get himself together enough to understand what was happening, fear bitter like copper at the back of his throat. 

John's breath caught in his throat and he almost gagged. That was it, then. He would ride this out and either be calm or fall apart. John took Sherlock's hand as best he was able and stared ahead at the screen. "I-I'll stay b-because I-I want t-to help you." Tears flowed freely down his face and his lower lip trembled, but he kept himself from sobbing and sat unflinching. 

Sherlock lay there, John's hand over his where he was tugging at his hair, and dared not move. He was making John cry, which was making him sick with panic. John was staying even though it hurt, and that had to mean something, but he was repelled by the reality that it was him causing John pain. He dropped down to the rotted porch of his mind palace and fisted his hands in his hair, rocking hard and screaming where it was safe to do so without scaring John. 

Greg leaned in and brushed a soft kiss to John's temple, keeping a tight arm around his back, pride swelling in his chest. 

"You are so damn brave," he whispered to John, wiping the tears off his cheeks with his free hand even though they continued to fall, "you are doing beautifully. I love you, god I'm proud of you." 

Though he didn't feel brave, John drank in the affection from Greg and nodded. "Okay. This is hard, Greg. This is hard. I'm trying. I'm helping, but I'm not doing it right. I'm making it worse." 

John leaned into Greg's touch and his tears slowed. The effects of Greg's presence were immediate and calming like cold water over a burn, but he was still upset. "Sherlock, if I'm hurting you, tell m-me and I'll leave. I don't want to hurt you." He dared to lean away from Greg to press a soft kiss to Sherlock's forehead. He lingered there, eyes shut, and spoke quietly. 

"Lets try to sleep, alright? Let’s fall asleep."

John's words, followed with the completely unexpected kiss to his forehead, coaxed Sherlock out of his mind. He opened his eyes and stared up at John, tears clinging to his lashes, nodding dumbly. John was going to...to _sleep_ next to him? He wanted to reach out and seek comfort, but he had no idea if he was allowed to or not. 

"I...p-pain," he whispered then, tears rolling heavy down his cheeks, "my...m-my b-body hurts. I'm in pain but n-n-not from y-you. Ph-physical it...pins h-hurt." 

Paul moved out into the hallway to call Miller, already on getting his medication. 

John had one arm around Sherlock and the other by Greg. He grabbed hold of his hand and squeezed as hard as he could, though his outward expression was as calm as he could possibly make it. 

"Yeah, I understand. One of them will give you something for the pain. I know the pins scare you. It's okay. They are meant to help." 

John could feel himself starting to come undone and shut his eyes. 

"Let's sleep. Let's sleep now."

Greg leaned in close to John, tucking John's head to his shoulder as he watched him fall apart.

Miller walked into Sherlock's room, syringe in hand to help with his pain. When Sherlock caught sight of the doctor he panicked, the tenuous grip on reality cracking and slipping away. He'd been so sure they were going to hurt him and now they were!

"N-No!" He shouted, pulling hard at the restraints in an effort to get away, "please! NO! I- y-you said-" Sherlock gagged, tears sliding down his face as Moran laughed in the corner.

John jumped and muffled a cry with his hand. 

"'S okay," he tried to assert, but he was shaking too hard to sound confident. "H-He's not h-hurting y-y-you." John tried to collect his mind together, but it was falling apart, crumbling like an old building and he was too slow with repairs. 

He pressed a shaky kiss to Sherlock's forehead. 

"P-Please just s-stop. C-calm d-d-down."

Sherlock pulled at his hair and wept, deeply and bitterly afraid. He struggled with himself, trying to hear John. 

_John thinks you should have an exam._

_\--Pain...deep, core pain...horribly familiar pain---_

_I'm looking forward to it._

_\--shuttered, distant, disdain, abandonment--_

_You're safe_

_\--twisting, wrenching pain, pins, bones--_

He screamed as Miller approached, no longer seeing Miller as he was, scrambling back where he remembered Mycroft to have been. 

Greg pulled John tighter into his arms, whispering swiftly right into his ear. "He's okay, he's just lost, it's okay. Breathe. Stay with me."

John's mind was spun around like a top when Sherlock screamed and he reached out blindly to Greg. "I-If I-I-" John's breathing was clearly panicked and he pulled Greg closer to him. John was trying to say; _If I leave now, he will think I sent the doctor_. But his mind was having difficulty spinning the idea into words, and his mouth was hardly going to comply even if he got that far. 

Mycroft pulled Sherlock to himself and rocked him lightly. "Shhh..It's me. It's My. You're alright, little 'Lock."

Sherlock screamed and bloody _screamed_ , panic twisting down to his groin and back through his heart, shocking icy cold and hollow. He pulled at his hair, hysterical, sobbing when he could catch his breath. Miller had already slipped the pain medication but Sherlock was no longer seeing the room or the people in it, trapped back in hell with Moran cracking the whip, threatening him with pins. 

Greg pulled John off the bed and into his lap in the chair just next to it, wrapping him up tight. "Breathe, it's okay. Breathe."

John was somewhere between screaming and groaning, trying to keep himself steady. He wanted to leave right then and have Greg carry him away to their tree, or back to their room, or the hallway, even. 

This was terror. 

John let go of Sherlock and dug his fingernails into his scalp. He tore down the sides of his head and squeezed his eyes shut, his cheeks coming up and mouth half open in a dead scream. 

"Sherlock, stop! H-Hurts!" 

John shook his head then, remembering just a bit too late that those words had been on the recording far too many times. "S-Sorry, M-M'fine, j-just-" John slowly released Greg and took Sherlock's head in his hands despite the screaming. 

"Shh! Shh! It's alright! P-please!"

Icy shock shot down Sherlock's spine as John's voice, so close and familiar, called out for mercy beside him. He brushed unconsciousness, overwhelmed with panic. 

He spoke on a choked whisper, repeating the words he'd been so horribly conditioned to say in order to protect John from more pain. 

"I- i-i-it-t was m-m-me. I h-hu-hurt...I...pl-please s-s-stop hurt-t-ting him," he choked back the sob trapped in his throat, terrified that he would hear John screaming in the next moment, panicked breaths rushing in and out between clenched teeth. 

John wished he could step up and help Sherlock. He wished for it to be easy to be calm so he could scoop Sherlock into his arms and rock him while he figured out what was happening. But his own mind was a whirlwind and he was beginning to lose touch with reality. 

The screaming frightened him. The admissions of guilt frightened him. The blood frightened him and the doctors frightened him. John released Sherlock's face and turned, arms reaching, for Greg to help him.

"M-Made it w-worse," John cried and buried his face in Greg's shoulder. "I-I made it w-w-worse. I'm so f-f-fucki-in-ng w-w-" John sobbed loudly and crawled fully into Greg's arms. "H-H-Hel-lp h-him, p-pl-lease!"

Greg held John to him, cradled in his lap, one hand wrapped behind John's neck as he rocked him gently and spoke softly to Sherlock, who looked to be hardly breathing. "Sherlock," he called out, trying to reach the man, "breathe, Sherlock. It's Greg, yeah? Greg. Lestrade," he offered his last name as Sherlock never failed to forget his first. 

Sherlock lay there, very, very still, feeling the slow slide of painkiller working through his veins. It took ten long minutes, listening to John crying in panic, heightening his own fear, to come to any sense of awareness. He realized slowly that he'd been counting, following Fabriconi in Latin to calm himself, rocking and digging his nails into the back of his neck. 

He relaxed in slow increments, taking stock of the room and the situation. Greg was still speaking in an effort to soothe both the men, and Paul was at the far end of the room keeping tabs on the entire situation. Sherlock let his eyes fall on John, tentatively reaching out with a shaking hand, his breathing catching like a child's after bitterly sobbing. 

"I...a-a-re you h-h-hurt? I...d-don't tell him...d-don't t-tt-tell him that I'm n-not doing it. It's n-n-never been me but he hurts you if-f I don't s-s-say." 

John worked through his panic slowly and fought against it as one would a raging fire. Each time he thought it was dying down, it would flare back up again and he would cling to Greg with renewed terror. When he heard Sherlock speaking somewhat rationally, he turned his head out of Greg's shoulder and locked eyes full of tears on Sherlock. 

"I-I'm ok-kay," he stammered and a small sob escaped him. John reached out one hand and put it in Sherlock's. "I am n-not h-hurt. N-nobody is h-hurting us. G-Greg is here. Greg has us." 

Sherlock drew his hand back as John sobbed, burying it in his hair again, pinching his eyes closed and going quiet. He didn't understand what was happening, and therefore had no idea what to do. John claimed he wasn't being hurt, but he was in hysterics. Sherlock recognized that face very, very well. He whispered an apology and dove back for the rotting darkness of his mind, slowly going lax in body as he withdrew.

John wrapped his arms around Greg's neck and held himself close to the man's chest. This was far too much for him to handle at the moment, but he wanted to give one last attempt before leaving. 

"Sherlock?" John began, voice shaking. "I think I need to go now. I'll c-come b-back. I p-promise."

Sherlock heard John tell him he was leaving, his cardiac monitor betraying how much terror that induced. He did not outwardly react, knowing what was coming next, tears sliding down his face as he lay there, hardly breathing. 

Paul nodded to Greg, wishing there was more he could do at the moment to help these men. Greg simply gathered John up and carried him out, holding him tight and speaking over him before he got out of control. 

"Breathe. You did wonderfully. You were in there such a long time, and you kept yourself so calm. Breathe." 

John wept bitterly into Greg's arms as he was carried away. It was such a broken, defeated, _self-loathing_ sound that John thought he might break apart from the inside out. "I-I f-f-failed!" John shouted and tried to pull himself closer to Greg's chest. "I-I-I-Im s-s-so f-fu-fu-fuck-" John broke down again and sobs wracked his tortured body.

Mycroft pulled Sherlock to himself and tried to calm him. "It's alright, 'Lock. It's alright. You're okay."

Greg bypassed John's room and took him right outside. praying to all that was holy that a bird would be in the tree, or something as enjoyable when he got him calmed down. They crossed the lawn and Greg pulled the bottle of pills awkwardly from his pocket before easing down to sit at the base of the tree with John wrapped up tight against him. 

"You did not fail," he said loudly, working around John to tip out four of his tranquilizers. He put them right to John's lips. "Under your tongue, breathe, let the medicine work. You are not worthless. You did not fail. Breathe." 

\----------------

Sherlock did not move as he stared at the place where John had been. He pushed back into his mind, preferring the ruin and darkness to whatever was going to happen to him next. Outwardly he remained quite tense, panicked breathing shattering in and out of his lungs. 

\-----------------  
John wasn't spiraling down into panic much further, but wasn't improving at all. He let out long, wretched sobs and tore at his hair. A drawn out scream tore from him, not out of fear, but frustration, self hatred and desperation. 

A full ten minutes later he managed to speak, voice a harsh, forced whisper on each exhale. "I went in there to help him, and I made it worse," he clipped and dug his fingernails into his opposite wrist. The pain helped center him and distract from the emotional torment around him. "H-Hurting yourself releases e-endorphines and o-opioids and h-helps w-with pain b-both physical and emotional."

John tucked his hands under his knees and shut his eyes. "I failed. I failed him. I was trying t-to help and I made it so much worse."

Greg allowed John the moment to squeeze at his wrist, hating it but allowing John some measure of control. Finally he shifted him in his lap so that he could take his hands away. 

"Deep, slow breathing does the same without harming yourself. Just not as fast. You did _not_ make him worse, John. He's been a wreck all day, you gave him a bit of peace. There is no damn way Mycroft would have let you stay if you were making him worse. He'd have thrown us out." 

He rocked them gently, glad to have heard John at least recall some of his medical training. "You did so much more than I thought you would with him. John, my god, when you calm down maybe you will see how brilliant you were." 

John looked up at Greg for a moment, though tears ran down his face, and smiled. Under the tree, in Greg's arms, with the sky above and that bird out there somewhere, inside the walls of the secure facility, John should have been happy. But Sherlock was retreating, he was bleeding from his mouth, he had screamed and cried and John hadn't done a thing. 

"I made it worse. I made it so much worse. I...How long was I there? I had fifteen minutes. I was s-supposed to help him in f-fifteen m-minutes."

Greg smiled gently at him, proud despite John's worry.

"You were in there a sodding _hour_ , John. an hour five, actually. You did not make him worse. He's frightened of the doctors, and it's not your fault that they made him hear you suffering when they hurt him. He's...conditioned to say things to make them stop hurting you. It's not really...added up in his head yet that you were never there while he was. He...you remember, yeah? Was conditioned to believe they were hurting you when he was difficult. You didn't make it worse. The situation was just hard." 

"An _hour_?" John's eyes widened and he tried to rationalize things in his head. "I...That's a long time, isn't it? A really long time. That's a full week in one day." 

John suddenly relaxed in Greg's arms, nearly limp besides the way he held his head up and grabbed hold of his shirt. 

"And I get the training. It might help if I figured out exactly what they wanted and how they trained him. They pretended to b-be hurting me, which m-means I shouldn't scream near him. He will...He will say he hurt me, but it isn't true...That one will be hard."

Greg nuzzled against the side of John's head, deeply grateful he'd gotten John to relax. He breathed deeply and let a few minutes of peace float over them before speaking again. 

"They wanted him to...I think Moran was so ham fisted with him to try and break him down enough to believe he'd done this to you. He started in fast and never let up, nearly all physical, all the time, hardly left Sherlock alone enough to breathe. He wanted Sherlock to do himself in at the end, I'm fairly sure, though Paul would have a better idea. He's watched most of the tapes." 

John was mostly calm now, but he still had tears flowing freely down his face. "He was...Yeah, Moran was sort of the hammer of the operation. Just a tool. He looked about as bad as I was. Moriarty was always being nice and letting me heal, as long as I was good. It was more up here." 

John tapped the side of his head. There were several psychological barriers yet in place, such as the need to keep others happy in order to self preserve, his willingness to accept new forms of 'training' in order to shorten the time spent in torture, and his general deprecated self worth. 

Greg brushed a feather soft kiss where John had tapped against the side of his head, deeply wishing he could fix it. "I can't imagine. You've overcome so much of it. You kept rational with him for a long time. I think once he's got those pins and restraints off, he'll do better. His lungs are crap at the moment, or they'd just keep him down. You are good to go in there and talk to him. Mycroft says that he rarely sees hope in Sherlock's eyes unless you're there. You help him, give him something to hang on to even when you're not in the room."

John didn't quite believe him, but decided to go with what Greg was saying. "I'll write what I did on my calendar. Does that mean I don't have to go tomorrow? Or... No, that shouldn't be. I should go again. I don't know why he likes me. God, Greg, why the hell does he want me to come? I make it worse! Why is this what he wants?"

Greg shook his head. "John, you don't have to go. You stayed an hour today, you don't have to go." 

He trailed his fingers through John's damp hair and looked up at the sky, resting his head against the bark. The air had just enough bite to help soothe his nerves. 

"You and I will go in your room and write this on your calendar. You've done incredibly well for the day. I mean, Christ, John. So very well. We'll put this on your calendar and watch a film and relax, yeah? You can scratch off tomorrow's visit if you don't want to go. It's alright."

John relaxed against Greg for another moment, then got to his feet. "Yeah, let's go write on it." Now that he was able to concentrate a bit better and could stay lucid for longer, John wanted to do more things. "Do you think we could ever go back to Baker Street? Not now, I mean, but some day?"

With a smile and a deep breath, Greg hugged John close to him. "I'm hoping to take you there in the next week or two. Soon as it's safe to leave here. Mycroft will take his brother to his home, or to another hospital if he still needs it. You'll be back before you know it, and Mrs. Hudson will wash your jumpers, and you will be home and safe and comfortable." 

John wanted to agree, but it wouldn't be home. Not really. "I don't want to live at Baker Street. It won't be the same. I don't want to go back there and be disappointed because I'm not happy. It's going to hurt. And it was Sherlock's home first, so I can't just tell him he can't live there. Can I live with you? I don't care where. I just want to stay with you."

Greg nodded as he helped John to his feet. "Yeah, John. Of course. If...yeah if you don't want Baker Street then...my place isn't as nice, but it's got a roof. I live about fifteen minutes from 221B so...you know, if you ever wanted to drop in on him...you can do that." 

He inhaled slowly, deeply worried that John had given Sherlock hope when there wasn't a cause for any. Moran would surely be caught soon, and then he and John would leave. He didn't want to think about Sherlock. His hands were tied, and it was too much. If one of them made it, that would be a miracle. Sherlock had gone willingly. It was only fair that John be the one saved. Greg pulled John into his arms again, suddenly hugging him close. 

"I'm so glad I get to be with you."


	13. Dear John

John didn't like the idea of being fifteen minutes away from Sherlock. "I want to keep an eye on him. He'll be upset all the time. Maybe...maybe you and I could live in C, or he could live and C and we'd be in B. I don't want him to be too far away, because he will be sad." John pulled Greg along behind him. His legs were stronger now and much less stiff, and he didn't feel the need for a chair. 

The hug was unexpected, genuine, and happy, the three of which John appreciated greatly. "You're so good to me, Greg. You're so good to me. I'll always choose to live with you. Always. And...And I'm sorry if I'm ever a burden."

Greg relaxed then, a bit of hope for Sherlock restored with John's words. He nuzzled down to the top of John's head and inhaled deeply.

"You are not a burden, I love you. I want you. I want you with me however you want to be. Let's go in and lie down. Maybe we can draw together while we watch a show."

Once they were back in the room, John began to calm completely from his self hating pit and looked at Greg's drawing. "I don't think I'll be able to draw like you. I can't even write on the calendar right." At mention of it, John brought it back down and put it on the bed. 

"Let's mark that I was in for an hour and five, and I can remember that all these other numbers are easy."

Greg wrapped an arm around John's back, watching as he marked the calendar. He pressed a kiss to the side of John's head and shifted him onto the bed. "Hang on," he whispered, getting up and fetching the sketch pad and a few pencils from his bag. He turned on some light music that John used to listen to, nearly jazz but not quite, and crawled up on the bed. He pushed John's legs so that John was sitting with them crossed and placed the pad of paper in his lap. 

"Now," he whispered, handing John a pencil before he moved to John's back, using his height advantage, encasing John between his thighs and wrapping his fingers around John's over the wood, adjusting John's mangled hand over the pencil. "How does this feel as far as hold? I know it feels strange for muscle memory, I'm asking about your actual bones. Does it hurt?" He'd accounted for the breaks, letting the weight of the pencil balance naturally farther back. It would feel like a strange way to hold it, but Greg knew what he was doing. 

John was excited to be learning things and stared at the pencil in his hand. "It feels...weird. But not painful." There were certain positions his fingers simply would not comply too, but this was comfortable enough, if a bit awkward. "What will we start out with? In school there was an art class, though I never got too good at it. I suppose I struggled a bit too much with staying still and not throwing the pencils." 

He tried a few marks on the page towards the bottom, wrote his name, though it was all a bit sloppy.

Greg moved his hand back over John's, putting his wrist to the center of the paper. "We are not going to try and write with the pencil like this. I'll help you figure out a new hold for fine detail work later. For now, we are going to get the impression of things down. Here's the secret," he smiled, his cheek against John's as he nodded to John's chair, "you already know how to draw. You just don't know how to see." He began to move John's hand in broad, messy strokes, nothing that would need any sort of fine motor work, speaking to him softly. 

"You've got all of this inside you already, yeah? All your experiences, all your life and love, hurt and loss, happiness and fear, and it works through your hands. When you put pencil to paper and you look at your chair, you both put down what you physically see for the technical lines, and that, in turn, is laced with what you are," he turned the physical paper, showing John how to save his hands from the work of it. 

"When you put technical lines down, don't draw what you think it should look like, draw what you actually see. Look at that chair as though it's in two dimensions. Then relax, breathe, and let it just flow. Let this," he reached with his other hand and tapped John's bicep, "relax, and your shoulder too. This is like breathing. There is no stress in this, no tension. Let it happen." 

For a few minutes he guided John's hand, steadily easing off and hardly directing him at the end until the paper was full of crazed lines that only narrowly looked in the shape of John's chair. 

John stuck his tongue out the side of his mouth and concentrated hard. The new skill was already pulling his focus away from both the stress of the torment and the uneasy peace of recovering, bringing him to a mental place he hadn't been since before the incident. The lines were messy and nothing like what he expected, though if he looked closely, he found that the proportions, while loosely defined, seemed very accurate. He tried to continue drawing in the supports that ran between the front two and the back two legs, and remembered absurdly one of the lessons from grade school. He adjusted his hand and let the loose lines flow back towards a vanishing point in some attempt at dimension. 

"I think I understand," John responded with a tone of both concentration and relaxation. "Now what?"

Greg smiled at John and took the pad up, arms around John's waist. "You drew it beautifully. Watch." He pressed a kiss to John's cheek and with bold, firm strokes outlined the heaviest of John's lines. Slowly but surely, with nothing additional than outlining, John's chair came into clear focus, complete with shading and tone already in place from the natural repetition where John had attempted the lines. 

Greg set the pad back down in John's lap and stared at it, a broad smile on his face. John's hand was obviously not hurting him, and the drawing was very good, very clearly John's chair, a bit of impression to it already. "Look what you did." 

John looked up at Greg gleefully. "Oh, that is amazing! And you just had to outline it? I think I could do that! Let me try again. I'll draw the dresser." He flipped the page again and squinted at it for a moment. "It's sort of slanted. Do I draw it straight, or like that? With the...what is it? Vanishing spot? Point?" 

He started on a loose outline with the same sweeping, light strokes that Greg had showed him. 

Greg took the next hour working with John, slowly guiding him, showing him simple ways to get what he was looking at down on the paper. He adjusted John's hold on the pencil constantly, ensuring that he wasn't risking the damaged muscle or bones, watching for lines of tension in John's shoulder and forearm. It was a brilliant, easy calm, both focused and incredibly relaxed.

John was as good a student as someone with a hand that looked like it had been through a meat processor could be, and he found that through continued use it grew tired, but not pained. The dresser drawing wasn't quite as good as the chair, since he did it mostly himself, and the bold ending lines were a bit wavered, but he was proud with his result regardless. 

"How do you make things look so...I mean, I can see myself in a mirror, and what you drew looked better. More alive. How do you put life on paper?"

Heat flushed across Greg's cheeks and he looked down at John's knee, taken by the unexpected praise. "That's ah, damn. High...high praise. I'm not that ah, skilled in this. I just like to draw. I...I drew you...it's hard to look at you and not put life on paper, John." 

"No, you didn't just draw me. I can see me. You didn't just...put down what your eyes saw. You did something awe inspiring, and eventually I'd like to learn. Or at least, I'd like to see myself how you see me." 

He put his hand on Greg's shoulder and smiled warmly.

Greg held his breath for a moment before shifting so he could easily see John's face. "I'm...I'm glad I showed you what I do. I doubt anyone at the Yard would believe this is my hobby. Pegged for a bit of an idiot, really. Suppose I earn that a lot, and working next to Sherlock...hard not to." He shrugged and let his eyes trail over John's face. 

"You're wrong though. I did just draw what I see." 

"Nobody thinks you're an idiot. Unless you're drunk. At that point, mate, you do get a bit clumsy. You're a brilliant DI. But everyone pales intellectually around Sherlock and Mycroft. Trust me, I lived with him. He can make you feel like you've the brain of potato just by opening his mouth once." 

John tipped sideways to lean more against Greg. 

"I'm glad I got to see what you see when you look at me, and I'm more than flattered."

Greg smiled broadly down at John and closed his eyes. It was brilliant listening to him speak close to his normal tone. It was nearly like talking to John from before and he adored it entirely. "I'm glad I drew something for you. I really am. I've got to text Mycroft, and Christ I'm hungry. Will it bother you if I eat while we watch telly?" 

He pulled his mobile from his pocket and began to type. He remembered far too well what it was like to be wrapped up in the dark days of limited options which all seemed hopeless and bad, watching a loved one soak in pain and terror. Mycroft might not need the reminder that he was not alone or forgotten like Greg had, but he was going to offer anyhow. 

_How are you holding up? It gets better. Don't forget that it gets better._

Down the hall, the vibration of his brother's mobile startled Sherlock hard and he jerked violently on the bed, his first movement in hours, slowly returning to a state of withdrawn staring. Light tremors raced across him constantly, though he did not outwardly seem to notice them. In his mind, he sat at the base of the stairs just inside the entryway, trying to gather the courage to go up. He was alone, and his mind would be the safest place for him to live out his days. If he could just get it back as he had it, perhaps it could be...tolerable. 

John nodded eagerly and sat up. "Yeah, you can eat. You can always eat. It won't bother me. Drinking too. I don't want to pressure you into not taking care of yourself. Okay?" He closed the sketchbook and put it on the small table. "And you can always tell me things like that. You can always ask for what you want."

 

Mycroft didn't check the text immediately, and instead went to Sherlock. "Hey, 'Lock. How are you?" His eyes were slightly bloodshot and he was exhausted despite having slept several hours across from him. "Are you alright? I'm here. Do you want some water? I've got some for you, and we can go slowly." Once he read the text, he responded honestly. He had no desire to lie to others, as it risked him lying to himself.

_I am exhausted, slightly over emotional, but stable and capable of functioning well._

Sherlock had not slept or been otherwise responsive since Greg and John left. He had no concept of time, still waiting for the fallout, edging step by darkened step deeper into his mind. He could hardly see the light below him any longer, breathing deep the smell of ash and decay, and odd mix of fire and rot, fast and creeping slow. His hands felt along the sodden wood which gave slightly under his palms. It was frightening to explore what used to be a vast, well-traveled and intimately familiar place now that it was soaked in darkness and falling apart. Absently he wondered what would happen if the structure caved with him in it. 

_There is no 'outside,' you idiot. This is just a construct of your mind. Get yourself together._

He's breathing tripped over itself in fear and he froze on the stairs, listening to sickening laughter echo in the darkness. He could not source it, above or below, he had no clue. Outwardly he shrank in on himself, trying to make himself smaller to the threat. 

Down the hall, Greg and John were having a much different time. Greg beamed at John, relieved and delighted with him. "You are making me so damn happy, John. Oh my god, today. What did I do to earn today? It's like Christmas. I love you. I'm going to grab a sandwich just outside the door, pick a show for us?" 

He rapidly responded to Mycroft. 

_Anything I can do, let me know. John recovered from that, if you can believe it. He did some drawing with me, and he is lucid, and I've you to thank for helping drag my sorry arse through all of this. I know I constantly fell apart on you. You're a stronger man than I._

Mycroft inwardly laughed. He was not a strong man. He was blindingly self aware, but not strong. Sometimes it is better not to know your exact limits. Perhaps if he wasn't acutely aware of how each one of Sherlock's agonized screams tore at his logical function, he wouldn't be so distraught. Mycroft took Sherlock's hand and kissed it. 

"I'm here for you, Sherlock. I'm here. If you want to wake up, just remember that it is safe out here."

_I am not particularly strong. I am only three weeks in. You are six months in. At some point I will break down too, and as I am used to being in tight control of my emotions, it will be even more disconcerting and difficult for me._

John chuckled in pure delight and everything about his world was bright and colorful. "I'm so glad I made you happy! I didn't think I could. I'll be like this every day, and you'll be happy, and even when we aren't we'll get through it." He wiggled a bit on the bed as he was invigorated by success and viewable rewards for his efforts.

"I'll get a show. You go get something to eat." John hopped out of bed and flipped through, going for a slightly inane comedy with lots of slapstick humor but no graphic violence. 

Greg went and got himself a quick plate of food, not needing to go far as the staff always kept something close at hand, and returned swiftly. He sat on the bed, though not very close to John while he inhaled the food, no mind to what sort of sandwich he'd just eaten, just getting it down for the sake of getting it down. He had an appetite, but it was based on need for sustenance, not a want to eat. The show was light and easy, and Greg smirked along with the laughter even as he replied to Mycroft. 

_If you break, I'll tape you back together. I owe you. Today has been breakthrough after breakthrough with John. I can't believe he made it so long with Sherlock._

John waited until Greg was finished to put his head in the man's lap and look up at him. 

"You know, this isn't so bad now. I'm used to it all. I'm not in physical pain, I can work through most attacks, and I get to enjoy stuff. I mean, stuff still sucks sometimes, but you're here." 

The declaration that Greg was there seemed to nullify his other grievances with the simple example of his trust in the man.

Mycroft returned the text.

_I am aware. Thank you. Your offer is appreciated. If you have any tips on how to prevent a breakdown, I would like to hear them._

Greg carded his fingers through John's hair and smiled. "Yeah it's been a really, really good day. We even had a scare, and still it's been a good day. Panic doesn't have to mean the whole day is gone. That's brilliant." 

He looked down at his mobile and tried to gather words to help Mycroft. There wasn't much he could do, really, other than ride it out. He gave himself a few minutes to think before responding. 

John was far happier than Mycroft was, and he nuzzled against Greg's stomach affectionately. 

"This won't be too hard, then. I can do this."

\----------------------------------------

_Sherlock ran like hell back down the stairs. The laughter made the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end, terrifying him._

He dragged a sharp breath deep into his lungs as he came back to himself, shivering hard, looking around the room in expectation of an attacker. He reached up and sank his fingers into his hair, pulling and biting down at the split on his lip as he tried to defend himself. 

“T-told him I'm s-s-s-sorry. I t-t-told him-m."

Mycroft held Sherlock despite the lack of reaction and jumped a bit each time he stirred. 

"Sherlock, please. It's My. I am here to protect you, remember? I'm going to keep you safe." 

He dropped his head down and made another attempt at getting through his logical processes by running several scenarios and analyzing his responses. 

_Hypothetical: If Sherlock had a medical procedure that would terrify him, and he would likely blame you, but in the end it helped him with his mobility, would you go through with it?_

_Answer: Hesitant yes._

_Conclusion: Willing to forgo medical treatment to keep Sherlock safe and stay in his good graces._

_Guards: Miller and Thompson are checking all medical decisions._

"Please, 'Lock, it's alright."

Sherlock suddenly let go of his hair, reaching out and fisting his hand in Mycroft's shirt, betrayed anger in his expression. 

"Th-they h-have John h-here. They have _J-John here_. I m-made you angry and then...then..." he trailed off in confusion, shaking his head. He could not think, and his memories from earlier were a confused mess. 

"John w-w-was-s crying. He was c-crying f--f-f-for help..." He held tight his brother, struggling to put it together through the intense fear. He was having to physically work very hard to catch a breath, the tube in his side painful, his chest sore and overall aching. 

"D-don't hurt me. P-please. Don't h-hurt me." 

"I have John here, and I am protecting him," Mycroft explained both gently and firmly. 

"I will not allow him to be harmed. You were confused. You still are confused. I am not angry with you, my little 'Lock. Not at all." 

Mycroft hoped that the affectionate, childhood name would convince him. 

"You were in pain, and John came to see you. He was frightened because you screamed and asked you to stop. You interpreted this as him being in pain, and it triggered your memories. John isn't in pain. If you want, I can call and ask him how he is feeling."

Sherlock caved at the use of 'my,' before his childhood moniker ‘Lock’. The fist clutching Mycroft's clothes no longer did so in anger, shaking hard enough that it was easily visible at his shoulders.

"I...I've g-gone mad," he whispered in terror, trembling and shaking his head. "Can't k-keep time...lose...the d-doctors and...he was...he's g-gone..."

It was then that Sherlock remembered that John had said something about living with him, only to turn and change the words, offering hope and then snatching it away. John was still angry with him, still needing him to suffer. Fear cracked off like electricity in his chest and he whimpered before speaking. 

"He's going t-to s-s-send them soon," he whispered, "he left a-angry again. It will h-hurt."

"Listen to me, please. You can trust me. I will not lead you astray, and you know for a fact that my mind is currently sound. John will not send doctors. You will not be hurt again. As for the time; we'll get you a clock you can watch and a calendar." 

Mycroft scratched lightly over Sherlock's scalp and kissed the top of his head. 

"I promise you I will keep you safe. If you want, we can call John right now and ask him if he is angry."

Sherlock was dragging in short, clipped breaths, narrowly managing to fill his lungs at all. "O-of course h-e-e's mad. I w-wouldn't bloody shut th-the f-fuck up. Stupid, sn-sniveling, Sherlock and... h-he's... g-g-gone. Always gone. A-always...ruining...he's an-angry, M-My he's angry! I w-want...w-want to hide. C-can't I hide? P-please I j-just want to g-go. He...I...i-it's going t-to _hurt_ please I'm sc-scared! They- n-no more I t-t-told you I w-wasn't going to s-see him anymore I'm t-too s-ss-st-t-tupid for-" 

Despite the fact that the door remained shut, to Sherlock’s broken mind, it swung open clear as day and Moran's favored doctor strode through, happy as you please, indifferent as a man preparing to do the washing up after a meal. Sherlock began to cry, struggling hard against Mycroft and the restraints. 

"No, _no please!_ P-please I'm s-sorry! I'm SORRY PLEASE! D-Don't! DON'T TOUCH M-ME! Pl-" he choked off as the man's hand closed over his nose and mouth, robbing him of his ability to breathe, stilling the air in his lungs. 

Mycroft saw the alarm on his face and watched him track an imaginary figure to right next to him. He could see Sherlock stop breathing as if something had been placed over his mouth, and debated how to take action, since words would not suffice. 

Mycroft couldn't fight the visions, but he could get in their way. He shouldered his way in front of Sherlock's line of sight and brushed his hand over his cheek, then by his lips and nose in an attempt to show him that nothing was stifling his breathing. 

"It isn't real!" He shouted, "Sherlock, come back to me. Come back to me!" 

Mycroft effectively blocked Sherlock's vision, interrupting his brain's attempt to reenact trauma he had not processed and did not fully understand. His pupils narrowed and he looked up at his brother, focusing on him, tears streaming down his face. Sherlock tried to drag in a breath, his ribs caving with the effort, face sliding from ashen white to red. He parted his cracked lips, gaping like a fish, reaching up and trying to grab hold of Mycroft as his alarms started to blare. 

Miller was in the room in the next moment, stethoscope in his ears as soon as he got a look at Sherlock's face. He did not try to move Mycroft as he pressed the drum to Sherlock's chest, shaking his head and sliding it to just under Sherlock's throat. Miller called for Paul, as Sherlock was more familiar with him and Paul had a medical license, tapping Mycroft's arm to alert him before starting to ease Sherlock to his side just enough to gain access to Sherlock's back. 

This, of course, sent Sherlock into a flurry of renewed panic. He let go of Mycroft, soundless, reaching back to try and guard his more delicate parts as the red hue faded with terror back down to waxen white. Miller spoke calmly to Sherlock as he pointed to the suction on the wall when Paul looked at him. A few moments later, Sherlock had a tube in his mouth as Miller precisely thumped at his back, abruptly dislodging a blockage produced from Sherlock's lungs. Sherlock fell into a fit of coughing as Paul pulled the tube away, having cleared the offending blockage. 

As soon as Sherlock was able to get anything close to an adequate breath he screamed for his brother in nothing short of pure terror. "MY!"

Mycroft watched in great anxiety as Sherlock's face turned red, but kept himself in the man's line of sight the entire ordeal. When it was over and the blockage removed, Mycroft did everything in his power to comfort Sherlock. 

"It's alright. It's alright. I've got you." 

The terrified scream sent chills of protective rage and sympathy down Mycroft's spine and he had the intense desire to beat the living shit out of Moran. 

Mycroft was not a particularly violent man, nor was he a pacifist. To be either would make him biased and unable to accurately judge what a situation really called for. But at the moment, with his brother broken and screaming, he would have torn out Moran's jugular with his teeth. 

"I'm sorry, 'Lock. You're alright. I have you. I've got you nice and safe." Mycroft scooped Sherlock up into his arms and held him close. "I've got you. You're safe with me."

Sherlock buried himself against Mycroft as much as his bound limbs would allow, with all the speed of a rabbit hiding from a fox, sobbing in the wake of sheer terror. Being moved to his side and having his back exposed to any degree when he was not entirely lucid was far beyond what he could tolerate. He dragged in desperate breaths to compensate for his lack of air and wept in grief and fright. Miller spoke softly to Mycroft. 

"Those are not serious, and not likely to be so large as to cause a blockage, but he may need more frequent help with his lungs. We should get him sitting up more often. I'll be in the hall if you need me." 

Sherlock was hiding under Mycroft's arm, the crown of his head tipped under Mycroft's bicep, gripping his shirt as though saving himself from falling. He cried and cried, broken with fear. 

"Joh-h-n’s...an-angry..kn-knew...he-e-e'd be an-angry!" 

Mycroft was doing his very best to keep calm and not fall apart emotionally himself. He didn't feel he was in danger of doing anything rash, or illogical, but the threat of tears was burning in his eyes and he recited numbers once more. 

"He isn't angry. I promise you, 'Lock, John Watson is not angry with you. He would never send anyone to hurt you. Remember that you never hurt him. That was just the recording. You never have to listen to them again and John will never be hurt again. Please, just listen to me and trust in what I say. You are safe. I came for you."

Sherlock pulled at Mycroft desperately, nodding his agreement at his brother's final words rapidly. "Y-You’ve got m-m-me. You..." 

_Is that who you want? Big brother?_

Sherlock screamed again, the sound ripping up from his toes, burning his throat and scorching his lungs. He could feel Moran's breath on his ear, his rough hand fisted in his hair as John’s voice slid through his mind next. 

_You did this to me, Sherlock. If you would have told me sooner none of this would have happened. Now you get to know._

"PLEASE! I D-D-DIDN'T KN-KNOW! J-JOHN PLEASE!" 

His voice cracked as he screamed loud enough to choke himself, breaking down into a broken fit of wracking coughs, jarring the tube in his side and the sensitive ribs. 

"My," he gasped when he could gather his breath, "h-help! My! T-tell him! My please!"

_So close_. Mycroft thought sadly as Sherlock fell apart. 

"I've got you. Trust me. Trust me, Sherlock." Mycroft needed a lucid, in control John to come quietly explain things, but at best he knew he would get a shaken, barely holding on shell of the man Sherlock loved. 

"John is not mad at you! You did nothing wrong. I promise you. Would you like to call him? Should I call him and ask if he is angry? I'll explain that you didn't know, that it wasn't your fault, and he will understand." Mycroft hated hinging everything on John, and wished desperately now that he had been more of a part of Sherlock's life for the past ten years. Perhaps then his comfort would be enough.

Sherlock clung to his brother, gulping down air as fear won the war, utterly engulfed in panic. He nodded as quickly as he could. 

"P-Please tt-t-tell him! Please! I d-d-d-don't w-w-want- n-no more, g-god please n-no more! C-call them off-f-f, m-maybe h-he'll c-call them off!" he pulled at Mycroft's shirt, using the material to hide his face as much as he was able, trembling hard enough to rattle the bed where he was tethered down for his own protection. 

"Okay, I'll tell him." Mycroft didn't want to validate Sherlock's delusion by playing along, but it seemed to be the only way to calm him at the moment. He dialed Greg's number and waited for the pickup. 

"I promise you that John is not angry."

Greg looked down at his vibrating mobile, surprised to find it ringing. He held up a finger to John and muted the telly as he picked up. 

"Hullo, Mycroft," he said quietly, smiling at John. Before Mycroft began to speak, he could hear a pathetic, frightened cry in the background. He drew in a deep breath as the smile faded, holding John's eye as he kept right next to him, holding him close. 

"Rough go of it?"

"Sherlock believes that John is angry at him and has sent doctors to hurt him," Mycroft explained quietly and continued his comforting gestures to Sherlock. "I was wondering if John is lucid enough to briefly explain otherwise."

Greg shook his head and whispered for Mycroft to hold on as Sherlock sobbed in the background. John seemed to be in a good place at the moment, and perhaps he could help in this. 

"He's..Sherlock is very frightened right now, John. He's not lucid. He believes you are angry with him. Do you think you can speak on the phone for a moment, tell him you are not?"

John nodded and took the phone. It was much easier than being in person, as he could turn it off and stuff it under pillows if it overwhelmed him. 

"Sherlock? You alright?"

Mycroft heard the calm in his voice and unclasped Sherlock's better hand. He showed him the phone, and helped him move it to his ear. He wanted to be clear that there was a difference between this and the disembodied voice. 

Sherlock wrapped an icy, trembling hand around his brother's wrist and sobbed into the phone. "I-I'm s-s-sorry-y, J-John. I'm s-sorry. P-p-" he choked back a pathetic whimper, shaking so hard it was difficult to keep the phone over his ear, "p-please-e, I kn-know y-you're ang-g-gry I...I'll n-n-never bother y-you ag-ag-" his breathing seized up in his lungs and he whimpered, gripping at Mycroft's wrist desperately. 

"Ple-ease I'll l-l-leave...I'll g-go away...p-please d-d-don't s-send...send th-them." 

John held the phone slightly away from his ear. 

"I'm not sending anyone, Sherlock. I promise. I'm not sending anyone to hurt you. I'm just sitting here. I drew stuff. I'm not mad at you." 

John looked to Greg for assurance that what he was saying was acceptable. 

Mycroft helped Sherlock keep the phone still and ran his fingers through his hair. 

Greg smiled at John, nodding and leaning in to brush a kiss to the temple opposite the phone. He whispered in John's ear, "You're doing grand," before drawing back and holding John's free hand. 

Sherlock could not make sense of what was coming through the phone and what he heard in his mind. He clutched it to his ear, attempting to put his focus to the feel of Mycroft's fingers in his hair. He did not speak, simply laying there with tears on his face, dripping with confusion as he tried to catch his voice. 

"B-but...h-h-his...th-that doctor...wi-with the ch-ch-" he grit his teeth as he tried to explain to John who had come for him, choked the air from his lungs, "chip-p in his f-front tooth w-was here! He c-came h-here a-and I-" he shook his head, suddenly pushing the phone away from his ear. 

It was a trick, it had to be a trick. He whimpered in fear and shoved his fingers back into his hair, clawing to get back into his mind. 

Mycroft held the phone close to Sherlock's ear despite his protests and disbelief. 

"It is not a trick. You can trust him."

John leaned into Greg and mouthed; _thank you_. 

"I'm sorry. I know you're confused, but I don't know how to help you. I didn't send any doctors to hurt you. I never did. I swear, Sherlock, I would never let anyone hurt you." 

John put the phone down briefly and took a deep breath. 

"Sherlock, I want you to listen to me. I want you to give me a list of all the things that are different about the room you are in compared to the one you were hurt in. Tell me reasons why you are safe." 

Sherlock wrapped his fingers around Mycroft's wrist again, struggling to put enough strength into pushing away the phone before his muscles failed him and he simply allowed himself to hang on. That damned doctor had come in and covered his mouth and stopped him breathing. He'd been pushed to his side, the threat horrifying and all too familiar. Tears slid down his face as he tried to think, his head pounding, frightened of everything outside of his brother. 

"M-My brother-r is h-here," he breathed, stuttering over the way he was crying, "th-there's c-color o-on the wall. M-M-More people..." he shivered hard, frightened by the fact that he had yet to figure out this game. "I'm al-alowed water and sleep-p." 

John nodded thoughtfully. "So you have water and Mycroft? And colors? That's nothing like it was before. You're safe, then. Why would I send someone to hurt you? Also, since when do I have more power here than Mycroft?"

In Sherlock's mind, everyone had more power than him, and he'd not considered the hierarchy. He'd managed to irritate John, or the voice that sounded like John's, and he again tried to push the phone away from him with a stuttering, "I'm-m s-s-sorry," letting go of Mycroft and sinking his hand back in his hair. He pulled until the roots burned and then pulled harsher, snapping strands at the base, narrowly keeping himself from whimpering in fear. "s-so st-stupid I'm sorry."

John got up and began to pace. 

"No, no, Sherlock. I am not angry. Mycroft is in charge of everything. He is in charge. I am not sending doctors. I did not send anyone. Even if I did, Mycroft would not let them in." 

He shook his head and fisted his fingers in his hair. 

"I'm not angry at all. I promise you."

Sherlock forced himself to lay still and quiet, trying very hard to accept that it was alright to hear John like this, that he was safe even if he was hearing John's voice through speakers. This sounded like John, even if he was scared. He wasn't saying anything that sounded like manipulation, unless the goal was to again get Sherlock feeling safe before he turned and left him. Seconds ticked by as he physically struggled to settle down, needing the moment to ease off and breathe. 

"I m-m-made you leave again," he whispered brokenly, hating himself, "I c-can't st-stop f-f-fucking e-everything up-p." 

He handed John Moran's words without realizing it. 

"Wh-why wouldn't you be m-mad? I w-w-wouldn't stop sc-screaming. You t-told me t-to stop and I j-just c-couldn't sh-shut the f-f-fuck up." 

John sat down on the floor and crossed his legs beneath him. 

"If there is anyone who understands what you are going through, it's me. It hurts to hear you panic, but it's not your fault." 

He put the phone down on the ground and laid down in front of it, close enough to hear but far enough that Sherlock's disembodied voice no longer perturbed him. 

"I'm the one who messed it up. I should have done better. I'm stupid," _like you always said_ , "and weak. You didn't do anything I haven't done. I am not angry. I am sad. I'm sad I couldn't help you. Next time I'll do better, alright? I'll help you more."

Sherlock held himself quiet as he tried to put all of that together. He shook his head, tugging at his hair. 

"I h-hurt you just...b-being h-here. You sh-should l-let Greg take you home and f-forget-" it was such a hateful suggestion he could hardly force himself to say the words. This must be the game, there was a catch somewhere. He was going to find it. "You d-don't need me, J-John." 

He stopped trying to push Mycroft away, slowly pulling himself back into the safe harbor of Mycroft's chest. He was drawing in short, clipped breaths and holding on the inhalation, narrowly keeping himself together. John coming to his room was both the most wonderful, and terrifying experience. Like a drug, he felt amazing when he was there, gave Sherlock hope and peace. The crash though...the crash was intolerable. Worse every time. 

"Y-you're strong. You h-have always been a-able to do what I have n-n-never been brave enough to." 

John sat up, away from the phone, and took a breath. He didn't sound like he was still worried about the doctors, and John didn't want to bring it back up. 

"I don't want to leave you." 

It was a difficult point for John, as he could so easily imagine leaving the facility with Greg, hand in hand, everything peaceful, getting a nice flat and a dog, with Sherlock left behind and forgotten. It frightened him how easy it was to imagine it. "I _will not_ leave you." 

_"You're going to hurt him," Moriarty sang, clearly enjoying the conflict in John's eyes._

_"Oh, he'll cry. He'll cry buckets. Of course, so will everyone else, but I'm more worried about him. You'll fear him."_

_John shook his head and strained against the chains that forced him into an uncomfortable kneeling position._

_"You're a liar and a bloody bastard!"_

_Moriarty seemed even more amused._

_"Good! Shout at how much you hate me! It'll just ease my way once I get my hands on him."_

_"No, don't you fucking touch him! I'll rip your goddamn throat out!"_

_Moriarty had chuckled then, and began once more with the whip. John grit his teeth as pain surged through him, nearly blinding him in white flashes after each crack against his skin. There was something that kept him going though, one phrase that allowed him to hang on to his mind for so long. I will not hurt Sherlock. I will not hurt Sherlock. I will not hurt Sherlock._

"I won't hurt you," John stated firmly. "I won't. I'll stay with you because I am strong, and because I want to."

Greg walked over and sat down on the floor next to John, wrapping his arms around him and pulling him in for a warm, soothing hug. He trailed his fingers over John's back and tucked John's head against his chest, carding his fingers through John's hair for a moment. John was doing very well, and Greg wanted to remind him that he was not alone right then, before panic had a chance to whisper at him. 

Sherlock shook his head, pulling hard at Mycroft, "You _won't_. You s-say...say th-that and then...you're a-always gone and the d-d-doctors come and they t-tell me you ss-s-sent...I was _bleeding_! Th-they- y-you send them and t-tell me you don't! You s-say you'll keep m-me safe and th-then you leave! I see your f-face when you think I'm n-not looking, you _hate m-me._ You al-always l-leave." 

A sob tore its way, broken and crushed, deep from his chest. 

"I...I would leave me too if-f I could."

John pulled at his hair with both hands and clenched his jaw. His lips were pulled back in a tense snarl and his eyes were wide open, though they didn't register what he was seeing. 

"I'm _sorry!_ " John exclaimed, and his hands sawed the air. 

"I didn't mean to! I didn't mean to, I swear! I just...I didn't send them! I never sent anyone to hurt you and I never will. I'm sorry I'm failing. I am sorry. This is really fucking hard for me and-" John stopped as his voice stuck in his throat, blocked by the quickly forming lump. 

He took several moments to compose himself before returning. "You...I can not hurt you. I will not hurt you. I try so hard not to hurt y-you but in the e-end, I l-lose and he w-wins- he always wins- and I c-can't h-hold on f-forever and I k-know that and-" John turned away from the phone and squeezed Greg for a moment. 

"I-I tried not to hurt you, Sherlock. I tried so hard not to hurt you. I tried. God, I _tried_." 

Greg grabbed the phone away, putting it to his own ear as he wrapped John in closer to himself, furious with the situation. "Sherlock," he said firmly, wrapping a hand around the back of John's neck, encasing him protectively as much as possible. 

Sherlock's brows knit in confusion. He grit his teeth and tried to place the familiar voice.

"G-Gr-Greg?" 

Greg nodded as he tried to soothe John, his own hands shaking with anger. John had been so optimistic, so happy. 

"You know damn well that John isn't sending anyone to hurt you. Are you serious? _Think_ , Sherlock. All those days and days and days you spent trying to help him and now you're going to do _this_ to him? He's working so hard, Sherlock, cut him a-" Greg went very still as he finally registered the silence, broken by the soft, terrible sound of tears. It was difficult after having been away from Sherlock so long to remember that the man was in a body physically shattered, his mind not functioning properly at all. 

Sherlock was hardly breathing, his stomach twisted up into tight knots of dread. He'd fucked up. Terribly. He'd pay for it. John was upset and Greg was angry and he'd phoned to beg mercy and earned something so much worse than if he'd just bloody well shut the fuck up. 

He whispered to his brother, small and utterly horrified. "H-help." 

Mycroft had the phone to his own ear and his voice rang out angrily. 

"Greg, what the hell? You can't accuse him of anything! He thinks the doctors are hurting him! He's confused!"

John whimpered and tried to calm himself down by breathing slowly and reminding himself that Greg was there. During those first weeks when Moriarty had claimed he would make John hurt Sherlock terribly, the man had clung to his one phrase to keep himself sane. 

_I will not hurt Sherlock._

He had been terrified of it. Worse, he could feel it coming. He could _feel_ himself growing more afraid of the voice, more flinchy around the name. He had tried to fight against it by etching those words so deep into his mind that sometimes he went to speak and only they would come. 

"I r-ruined everything. I left him. I shouldn't h-hav-ve l-left him!" 

Greg tightened his hold on John and closed his eyes, speaking very softly to Mycroft. 

"God, I'm sorry. I'm sorry. Jesus, no excuse, I'm sorry Mycroft. I'll come talk to him in a few minutes and set it right, let me settle John? I'm- Christ, _Christ_ , I'm sorry." 

Sherlock was frozen in place, clinging to Mycroft, hardly daring to breathe. His ears were pricked for the door and he shifted down, setting fire along his back as he tried to sink deeper into the bedding, physically trying to shield himself. His stomach heaved as nausea twisted in his gut, utterly certain he'd be punished for what he'd done to John.

Mycroft hung up the phone without any further conversation with Greg. 

"Sherlock, you'll be alright. Please, just listen to me. I am going to tell you a few statements, and you need to listen logically. First; You are very confused. You have been tormented and traumatized, and you are not thinking clearly. Second: I am not confused. Third: John is not trying to hurt you. That is part of your confusion. He is upset, but not with you. Fourth: No punishment or harm of any kind is coming to you."

_Moran sauntered into the room, whistling with a smile on his face. "Good morning, Sherlock! Something different for today!"_

_Sherlock's eyes sluggishly cut to the wall as John's voice rang out, bored but not upset. It was footage from Baker Street. He'd known Moran had it bugged. John was giving Sherlock yet another lecture on the ills of smoking, while Sherlock puffed at a fag. He'd been so happy in that moment, John's focus on him, drawing out medical terminology from the man as surely as he was the smoke from the cigarette. John was brilliant as a physician, and Sherlock adored coaxing the skill in the privacy of their flat._

_"Oh, but you botched that, didn't you love?" Moran's voice was calm as he snubbed out his own cigarette just above Sherlock's eye, making him scream as the video cut to John under the lash, being forced to repeat how much he hated Sherlock for hurting him._

Sherlock whimpered and looked up at his brother. "Oh g-god I'm s-s-sorry My. My! I d-didn't mean to m-make hi-m sad! I- h-he always s-says he'll st-stay and the-e-en he-" Sherlock reached up, grabbing the back of Mycroft's neck and dragging himself as close as he could. 

"C-confused? I- I don't un-d-underst-tand what is...I m-made Greg angry!" 

Mycroft shook his head. "You are very confused. You can trust me. They are not going to hurt you. Has John ever physically hurt you? Besides the occasional swat? Greg and John are two people who love you and care about you. They wouldn't just send doctors to hurt you. And even if they did, I would kill the doctors personally."

Sherlock nodded at that without hesitation. "

Y-you w-would...w-wouldn't you? You're My. Y-y-you n-never...y-you wouldn't l-let..." he drew in a deep breath, slowly starting to relax, keeping Mycroft's promise to keep himself close at heart. Mycroft had always protected Sherlock, even when Sherlock had not wanted it. Minutes ticked by with Sherlock alternating between fright and slow, tentative relaxation. 

"I...I d-didn't intend to upset...u-upset...I m-made them angry with me. I didn't m-mean to! I- it's ss-s--so damn s-scary My, I'm al-always s-s-so afraid! Gr-Greg is m-mad. He protects J-John now. I messed up, I'm s-sorry."

"Greg was mad, yes. But not at you. He is just overprotective of John. It's a good thing, usually, to have someone so devoted to him." 

Mycroft was going to speak with him personally, though. How dare he accuse Sherlock of _anything?_ when Sherlock was strapped down and screaming with fear and pain? Who could accuse a man so tormented of anything?

Sherlock nodded, tears running down his face though no longer in hysterics. He pulled Mycroft in something more akin to an embrace rather than clutching at him, muscles aching from tensing for so long. 

"H-Have I g-gone mad? I feel l-lost. I should have it t-together by now I've...it w-wasn't that long a-and..." he shook his head, trying to rest his ear close enough to hear his brother's heart. 

"Wh-when they...when they leave, will y-y-you still see me?"

With a heart full of gratitude and a glimmer of hope, Mycroft held his brother in a proper embrace. "You haven't gone mad, and this will end. I promise you; this will end. As for visits, you will either live with John and Greg, or with me, with frequent visits from the other either way. You won't be alone, Sherlock. Not ever."

\--------------------------------

Greg gathered John to him and pulled them both off the floor. John had been so happy earlier. "John...please listen to me," he whispered, desperately wanting one of the men he was trying to save to be alright. 

"Please, John, he's just terribly confused. He doesn't understand what's going on. Please. Here, lie down, talk to me." 

He needed to get over to Sherlock's room swiftly, but he would be damned if he was going to leave John in such a state.

John stayed on the floor, slowly lying down face first in the carpet. It was mostly soft against his face, a bit dirty, and smelled like home. He tried to keep the memory of the house on Baker Street in his mind as he spoke. 

"He is mad at me for leaving. I hurt him. I hurt him and I told myself I wouldn't. I promised myself I wasn't going to hurt him, but I broke and I can't fix myself." John didn't stutter, but his voice was terribly small.

Greg went right down with him, laying on his side, taking one of John's hands as he spoke. 

"John, when you were...when he first found you, he was a complete mess. I mean, Jesus. You would not have recognized him. He tried _everything_ to help and he made you worse and worse and worse. All he wanted in the world was to ease your pain, if not remove it, and he couldn't. When he realized that he hurt you too much, he called me in, and then _I_ couldn't help. I felt...I've never felt smaller, John. Not in my entire life. I couldn't stop messing up and hurting you even though I'd keep promising myself I'd never hurt you again. If feels...terrible. But...you say over and over again that I do help you. Isn't it fair that you are allowed to not get it perfect the first few tries, when he and I couldn't get it right in our first few dozen?" 

John could hear the logic in Greg's argument, but his mind still had the _I will not hurt Sherlock_ etched into it as a solid rule. 

It was the only one he had truly made himself. All the rest, the fear of water, the loathing of eating, the initial fear of sleeping and speaking, were all whipped into him by Moriarty. The only words he repeated that had truly been his own were _I will not hurt Sherlock_ , and now he had done just that. 

"I should be compassionate. I should be understanding. I should know what is going on and help him with it, not make things worse."

Greg smiled sadly at John and pulled the man's wrecked fingers to his lips, smelling the graphite still smudged along his palm. 

"Oh, John, you are so deeply compassionate and understanding with him. He scares the daylights out of you and you just...power through, because you care enough to not blame him. You think about what he's going through, even if you can't fix it, you consider him. You don't make things worse, John. He would be in there screaming for mercy constantly if not for your visits. You help him. It doesn't have to be perfect, and that's good, because it never will be. Hell, I've never gotten it right, but you still seem glad that I'm here." 

"I'm always glad when you're here," John muttered. "I'm not as good as you. You stay with me. You're always here, and I can always be near you. I can't be like that with Sherlock. He screams and I just...I can't handle it. I'll never be good enough for him because he doesn't want to hurt me, and I don't want to hurt him. He knows that he scares me. It hurts him. I try to not be scared, but he thinks I'm trying to hard. I need direction. I need someone to just tell me if I am doing the right thing."

Greg inhaled slow and deep, savoring the familiar way that John smelled. "I think right now, you need to heal a bit more before we see him again. I know you've got him on your calendar, but if you replace that with food and water...once you can care for yourself, you'll be more empowered to help him. I honestly think that's the best way to do this, John. You're going to be able to leave here before him, we have time to work on how you feel about being near him, and when he's not so physically restricted with the pins and all that, I bet he'll be able to think better." 

"But, you see, even if I get better at water, and keep speaking well and working on the water, I won't be any better at talking to him." 

John's eyes were wide and he rolled onto his back to look up at Greg. The thought that it was dangerous to be on his back didn't touch him with Greg in the room, and he folded his hands behind his head on the carpet. 

"But you think...I can help him by getting better? Is that what you suggest?" 

Greg kept on his side, propping his head up on a hand and resting it on an elbow buried in the rug. 

"Yeah, I do. I really do. You're so much healthier than you were, so much stronger -and by that I mean you've regained your physical strength- and I can only reason that when you don't have a drip in your hand and a tube in your nose, you're going to feel so much more able to focus on what you want. That includes Sherlock, if you want him. If you don't, John...that's okay. It really is. He'll...He'll settle with his brother, and he'll recover, and it will be okay."

"I don't want to stay with Sherlock, but I cannot with good conscience leave him. I can't. It would be wretched of me. Simply evil. He went to torture willingly and I decide I don't want him? If I take paper..." 

He got up and got the sketchbook, turning to the back and writing on the back of the cover so not to waste a page. John began to draw a crude x,y graph, where the y axis was fear and the x time. He started with water and tracked how much it scared him since his recovery, then speaking, then food, then sleeping. They all went down, though some less than others, and speaking had hit ground entirely. 

"Then if I put in Sherlock..." He drew the line, which started high, above the others, and descended a bit. "Wouldn't it make sense if it did what the others do?"

Greg hummed as he looked at the paper. "Yeah, John, in theory. The...variable you are not really looking at is what practice does to him. He's not able to tolerate you leaving without spending the rest of the day, it seems, in fear of punishment. That's not your fault, John, nor is it his. It just...is the situation we are dealing with. He's...look, see? When you became calm with talking and sleeping, look how fast everything else became easier? When you've got some of this off your plate, you've room for more. Besides, Miller has been warning us that your tube isn't going to hold much longer, and your veins are stressed. This method of hydrating and feeding you has an expiration date. Sherlock...I can't imagine a time when he won't be willing to see you again. That's something that may just have to wait." 

John hated the idea of putting himself above anyone, especially after all he had done was scream, cry, and cost money. Sure, he had attempted to make life easier for those he loved, but he hadn't done much good. 

"Also, the ones we practiced more went down faster, like speaking and sleeping. I suppose if we just keep on with the water, I'll get used to it. I'll need to drink more often. Maybe I can just get a bowl of water and leave it over there so I'm not nervous with it in the room."

Greg got up right then, knowing they'd tried this with the bottle but perhaps the bowl would work better. He went into the washroom and filled the bowl he often used to wash John when John was sedated, carrying it back out and setting it down on a counter that John would easily see from nearly any point in the room. He went right back to the floor and took John's hand again. 

"John, he's not like water. I...I mean _I_ just hurt him. I've got to go for a few minutes and try and fix that, I can't believe I got angry with him, but...he has feelings, and I know you know that. It's different, learning to be near him. Maybe if you go to Baker Street and remember him before...I mean, John, if you don't miss him, if you never get to a place where you miss him, then...you can try and force this all you want and it's not going to work. You can't help how you feel.”

John watched the water and told himself a litany of things about it that weren't relevant and didn't help much.

"I am forcing this because I thought I would always hate speaking, that it would always be the most frightening thing in my life, and I love talking to you now. Maybe I'll enjoy being around Sherlock someday. I just _don't know_. It's like I'm in some sort of thick jungle and can't see three feet in front of me. But I know I can't trust my own mind, and I have to go on facts, what's happened, and what other people say. From that, it's reasonable that I won't be afraid of him after time has passed, and perhaps I'll even want to see him someday. Right now, though, I don't feel like his friend. I feel like he is someone I should care for at a distance. But that might change. I hope it does."

Greg nodded and leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to John's forehead. "You are wonderful. I know this is all terribly difficult. That you are even trying to face things that scare you this much is...god, John it's all beyond measure. Care for him from a distance, and we will sort the rest. I, however, need to go apologize. Will you be alright here for a few minutes? I frightened him and I feel like a complete tosser for it."

"I....I will be okay without you. But please, don't tell him what I said. If he asks, tell him I have every intention on helping him, because that isn't a lie, and he will know if you're lying." John got to his feet and helped Greg up as best he was able. 

"I'll be in here. Tell them not to let anyone in. I love you." He hugged the man as if he would never see him again, and indeed it was as frightening. 

Greg hugged him back, sensing how frightened he was. He picked up the tablet that John often used and handed it over, opening the texting program. "This dings my phone. You text, I'll respond, see?" He pecked out a dopey _I love you_ and watched as the message popped up on the screen for John. "If you get scared, text me. Watch a show and relax, or draw me something. I will be as fast as I can. I'll not tell him what you said." 

He leaned in and kissed John's forehead before turning on heel and leaving quietly, shutting the door behind him. He let Paul know to keep an eye out with one text, and then sent another to John not two minutes after leaving. 

_Security is such a pain in my arse_. 

Perhaps a weak attempt at keeping John smiling, but there it was. 

It wasn't until he came to Sherlock's door that he dropped the effect of happiness, deeply worried for what he'd done. He cleared his throat and knocked lightly, calling into the room without daring to open the door. "It's Greg." 

Sherlock had been hovering just above sleep when he heard the sound. Greg had never showed up without John, and he'd made John angry. Immediately he went stiff, pulling at Mycroft in panic, " _No_ ," he cried, low, quiet, and defeated, "no...I s-said I w-was sorry!" 

John looked down at the tablet and gave a weak smile. It took all his energy not to reach out and adhere to him like a magnet, but that wasn't an option at the moment. When the door shut, John crawled into bed and under the covers, using the light of the tablet and a pillow to make a tiny, enclosed tent. Greg's second message helped him tremendously and he responded instantly. 

_Tell him I'm not angry, please. I love you._

He added a second line, more to make himself feel better than anything else. 

_Don't forget to come back._

Mycroft was tempted to send Greg away. He was clearly upsetting Sherlock. But from where he stood, if indeed he took a step back to observe, he knew that Greg would be calm and able to ease Sherlock's nerves. 

"Come in and explain that you aren't angry."

Greg sent a text right before he went in the room.

_I'm already itching to curl up and laugh at something stupid on the telly with you. Couldn't keep me away. I love you. I'll tell him._

He pushed the door open, guilt spiking down his spine as Sherlock began to beg his brother for help, tripping over words that sounded like _sorry_ and _doctors_. He closed the door at his back and walked more into the room, speaking softly to the broken man he'd hurt so terribly. 

"Sherlock, I'm sorry. I am not angry with you, that wasn't right for me to say. I get over-protective of him and- I'm so sorry, Sherlock." 

Sherlock could hardly hear him over the rush of blood in his ears as his heart rate soared. 

"I w-wasn't- wasn't g-going to h-hu-hurt him! I- why is it always me? I didn't DO IT!" he screamed out in desperation, knowing he wouldn't be heard, "I N-NEVER- IT W-WAS MORAN HE- Pl-PLEASE!" he pulled at his brother, Latin falling from his lips as he began to cry once more, tears sliding down his cheeks. 

"M-Make him listen to m-me! J-John will th-think I h-hurt him!" 

Mycroft refrained from glaring at Greg and instead poured his energy into his efforts with Sherlock. 

"You never hurt John. You never hurt John. I believe you. I know it was Moran and Moriarty who hurt him. You never touched him except for to save him and help him. He knows that, and isn't going to hurt you." 

Mycroft made his body into a protective barrier around Sherlock and looked back to Greg. "The only reason Greg was upset with you was that he thought you had spoken to John harshly, but now he knows you didn't. He misunderstood, _didn't you, Greg_?" 

Greg was very, exceedingly well seasoned with tortured men in panic at this point. He stepped closer to the bed despite the way Mycroft tried to shield his brother, gathering from Mycroft's response what the nature of Sherlock's words had been. He spoke very soft, and very clear to Sherlock, who was clinging to Mycroft as John often clung to his own shirt. It was...somewhat comforting to see that Sherlock had this with _someone_ , at least. 

"Sherlock, can you hear me? Tell me you can hear me." He held up a finger to Mycroft, knowing what he was after at this point. Sherlock whimpered in abject fear and his legs shifted hard on the bed, pulling at the restraints. "Sherlock, I need to know you are understanding me. Can you just nod?" 

It took a few moments but Sherlock's head finally moved as requested, and Greg carried on. "Sherlock. I don't get to visit you very often, and we talked a lot on the phone when John first got back. Do you remember? I was watching John have a hard time on the phone with you, and I just...like Mycroft said, I misunderstood. I defended John and he didn't need me to. You never hurt him. You never hurt John. I'm not angry. John's not angry." 

Sherlock shivered hard and did not speak, simply pressing deeper against his brother and whimpering. 

Mycroft held Sherlock and shielded him from Greg as if personally believing the man would hurt him. 

"Sherlock, please look up at him. He doesn't look angry to me, and you know I can tell. He looks sad, and a bit guilty, and very sorry, but not angry. I can tell. I can always tell. How about you sit up just a little and talk to him?" 

Sherlock did not realize that he had his eyes shut tight, curled in on himself and Mycroft as much as possible. Greg moved to the side of the bed opposite Mycroft and very gently reached down, touching Sherlock's shoulder. Sherlock froze, breath seized up in his lungs, fully anticipating pain. 

"Sherlock," Greg whispered again, squeezing his shoulder very lightly. This did not have the desired effect, as Sherlock's jaw dropped and he belted out a terrified shriek against Mycroft's chest. Greg stumbled back and moved far away from the bed, actively hating himself. How could he be fucking up with this as well? 

"I'll go! I'll go, I'm so sorry!" 

Sherlock shook his head even as he sobbed. He turned his head sharply to look at Greg, eyes gone wide and panicked. "N-NO! No, don't! J-John will ne-n-never come back if you go!"

Mycroft was rapidly losing control of the situation and pulled Sherlock to himself and away from Greg. He drew the covers up closer around his shoulders and shot a glare with nothing short of murderous intent at Greg, though it was only to make a point. 

"You may not touch him unless he gives you permission," Mycroft growled, voice low and eyes slits. 

"Nobody is allowed to touch him unless I say. Back up." 

Mycroft turned to Sherlock then, voice soft and quiet. "Hey, my little 'Lock, it's alright. You're alright. I've got you. Why don't you want him to leave?"

Sherlock tucked his face back to Mycroft's chest, shaking terribly, trying to speak through chattering teeth. Greg took a step forward before remembering himself, holding his position.

"Sherlock? John wants to be able to help," he offered quietly, giving Sherlock the truth. "He feels terrible that he's not in here now. He...he's trying to get better and help."

Sherlock sobbed as Greg spoke, whispering in broken, crushed Latin to his brother, "he's...please make them leave...I can't...please they...My don't tell them I asked...." He hiccuped and sputtered on a mix of choking fear and grief, "it's..he-he's telling m-me..telling me John...wants...but doesn't...it's...please!" He was growing more and more panicked as he realized what Greg was saying. John wanted _to want to help_. It was vastly different than John actively wanting to do anything for Sherlock. 

He was being forced through the slowest goodbye possible and he couldn't take it any longer.

Mycroft held his brother's head to the dip in his chest and pressed his lips to the top of his head. "'Lock, he won't hurt you. It's Greg. Greg loves you. All he is saying is that John is too tired to help right now, not that he doesn't want to. He's exhausted and a bit frayed. You know how it gets, when the fear sets in. You forget who I am, but that never means you don't love me, does it?" 

Mycroft stared up at Greg. He had been speaking in English and demanded with his eyes that the man agree with what he was saying. 

Greg was ready to turn inside out with guilt. He uncharacteristically wrung his hands, pulling hard at the skin in his distress, wishing that Sherlock would speak English. 

"Yeah, Sherlock, that's..that's all I'm saying. I'm...it's _me_ , Sherlock. Greg. Lestrade, yeah? I...I would never hurt you. You know me. I've...please, Sherlock, I'm not going to hurt you. I just got caught up taking care of John and I messed up. I'm sorry, I did not intend to frighten you. John's okay, he's just...this is very hard for him. He's trying. He's trying really-" 

Sherlock cut him off with a pained sound of distress, pressing deeper into his brother. 

"NO! D-Don't t-tell me I'm h-h-hurting him! Don't _TELL ME THAT!_ " his stomach twisted as acidic copper flooded up the back of his throat, burning his nose, stinging in his eyes. He could hardly breathe through the force of his heart hammering. 

"I c-c-can't be- I'm just h-here! I can't e-e-even defend mys-s-self _stop telling me I'm hurting him!_ " He sobbed bitterly then, heartbroken. "If I'm hurting him it's just by breathing-g and I tried to stop but they won't l-let me! Just t-take him and _go the f-fuck away_ I cannot endure this! K-Kindness and th-then p-pain! I cannot b-be more sorry, _stop telling me I'm h-hurting him!_ " 

His body tensed so hard it was incredibly painful, jarring the pins, tugging at his stitching and healing burns in expectation of retribution for his bold talk, tears silently pouring down his face, trembling as though on ice. 

"You aren't hurting John. He's just tired. That's it. He's just tired, and likely in bed." Mycroft had his eyes squeezed shut against the harsh sounds of Sherlock's sobbing. Hurting John was obviously a serious trigger.

"Sherlock, I want you to breathe with me. Deep breaths. John sent Greg to tell you that he was sorry, and Greg came himself to say he was sorry for speaking harshly. Neither of them are sending doctors, and John is not being hurt by you breathing. He wants you to be alive and happy. I don't know if you recall, but he protected you when you were shot." 

Mycroft took Sherlock's better hand and kissed it softly. "He has never sent doctors for you. Not once. And he is not being hurt by you. He is just tired."

Sherlock wept, heartbroken, trying to breathe through the tears in tandem with his brother as Greg stood back, silent. He'd never seen anything like this where Sherlock was concerned. Sherlock's anguish was contagious, and Greg fumbled for his phone for want of something to do that was productive. He sent a swift text to John with shaking fingers. 

_I'm sorry this is taking so long. I love you. God, I love you._

Sherlock's breathing was slow to steady out, chaotic and catching, taking several long minutes to match Mycroft's pace and slow down to something less wrecked. He stared at his brother through puffy lids, bloodshot eyes hopeless and deeply saddened. 

"My h-head hurts," he breathed in Latin, childish and small, chin quivering. He felt miserable and the fear refused to leave him. He wanted everyone to leave him alone save his brother, frightened and wanting to hide. 

Mycroft continued to breathe with Sherlock and let the sound fill the air for several minutes. "Would you like some water? Or to sit up? Remember, Sherlock, you can tell Greg to leave any time you want."

John's heart lurched when he got the message and his whimpering slowed. He tapped out a reply with shaking hands and let out a drawn out whine. He was greatly afraid that his misconduct previously had prompted Greg to leave, even though he was logically aware that the man was around the hall.

_I love you. Remember to come back. If I've ever done anything wrong, I'm sorry. Don't forget to come back._

Sherlock clung to his brother and held tight, holding eye contact to remind himself that he had a guardian present. In Latin, feeling far too frightened for the courage to instruct, he whispered to Mycroft. "I w-want-t them to l-leave," tears spilling over his lashes. He pinched his eyes shut, forcefully keeping his breathing in time with Mycroft's, putting his entire focus to his brother in a desperate bid to be safe and controlled. 

Greg was swiftly replying to John as the brother's spoke, half in a language he did not understand. 

_You've done nothing wrong. I'm coming back. I'm not doing a good job here at all. I just want to come back, I'll be there soon, I'll tell you when I'm on my way. Deep breaths, John. You are safe. Paul is guarding your room, no one is going to come in except for me. I love you. You're safe. I'm seconds away, just down the hall._

Mycroft gave command to his brother's request instantly. "Greg, it's time for you to leave." He left no room for question in his voice, though he did not sound particularly angry. "Shhh, Sherlock, it's alright. I'm here. I won't let anyone hurt you."

_Please come back._

John was deteriorating, whimpering on each exhale and rocking himself beneath the blankets. He read the message over and over again, but it was not helping with his separation anxiety.

_I don't want you to be gone. I hate this._

Greg opened his mouth to whisper something soothing to Sherlock but decided better of it, turning to leave without another word. He shut the door quietly behind him and leaned his back against the wall, tipping his face to the ceiling and pressing sweat-damp palms to his face, letting himself breathe for fifteen seconds before clearing his throat and picking up his mobile again. 

_I'm walking back right now. When the door opens, it will be me._

John wanted to look brave when Greg came in and slowly came out from under his blankets. He sat up on the bed, sitting on his heels in a way that would allow him to get up very swiftly. 

_I'm okay. Please hurry._

John kept the telly on and pretended to be watching it, but his face was deathly pale and his body shook with anxiety.

\------------------------------

Sherlock scrambled closer to his brother as he heard the door close, pulling hard at his other arm for want to curl up under his sibling and hide. 

"I don't f-feel well," he sobbed, drained of all his reserves, feeling sickly and brittle. "P-promise me I'm n-not...n-not..." he shuddered as he thought of the options. Whip or fire? Fists or less savory flesh, pain he could distance from or pain that forced too deep inside of him to shut out? John's screams or laughter, or worse yet, sounds of contented pleasure? He gagged, which shot pain across his head, and struggled to keep breathing. "I w-want to s-s-stop. Ple-" his gut twisted again and he had to shut up to keep himself from tossing up all over himself again. 

Mycroft tried to soothe his brother gently with soft words and continued touching. "You're okay," he whispered and ran his fingers back through his hair, "Nobody is going to hurt you. I'm protecting you, alright? I am protecting you. Nobody can get in here without my permission. There are passwords, guards, locks and keys. There are cameras and background checks and other precautions." 

Sherlock let go of Mycroft to clap a hand over his ear while Moran laughed at him, whistling from some unknown direction. It wasn't real. Mycroft would tear the man limb from limb were he there. "H-he's...it's n-n-not real, I kn-know he's n-not h-here but..." he gagged again, shivering hard and crying out as he shifted his legs defensively, "I c-c-can f-f-feel...feel h-h- oh god m-make it _stop_." 

Mycroft hated watching Sherlock in such torment. It was as if Moran was there, taking his brother apart, and he was powerless to stop him. "Shhh...He isn't here. I'm here. I would kill him if he tried to hurt you. He wouldn't take a step in that door. I've got the building secure. We know where he is. He is being watched. If he gets on a plane, we'll know. He's hundreds of kilometers away."

Sherlock nodded as he cried against his brother's chest, shaking and sick as he felt Moran like oil, slick and greasy between his thighs, at the back of his neck, around his ribs. 

"My..." he breathed, needing to tell his brother, needing to hear that he was not as disgusting as he felt, "My...I was...he...again and again...l lost-t count at e-eight-t..." his breathing hitched, lower lip sucking in despite himself. 

"He...I w-was...he st-star-rted r-raping me, My...I c-couldn't...he w-waited until I w-was m-m-missing skin and b-broke my bones and I c-couldn't...couldn't st-stop-" he shook his head, confused, speaking as though Mycroft was unaware. 

Mycroft's gut twisted at the words and he dropped his head down. "Yes, 'Lock, I know." He had begun to tremble lightly, unable to grasp how someone would take such sick pleasure in abusing his little brother. He could not get the scene out of his mind, only his mind warped it, and Sherlock appeared much younger. "It's going to be alright. I'll protect you now. I'm sorry I couldn't before, but I've got you now."

Sherlock pulled at his arms and whimpered. "I h-h-hate these! I w-want...I thought when th-they put me in the car I would die. I th-thought I would just bl-bleed to death. I was already shot and th-they- I thought I w-w-was just going to m-my death I didn't kn-know I-" he shuddered and all but kicked with his legs, fighting with the restraints and the medical devices, claustrophobic and trapped. 

"I was sure I w-was going...and then h-he...I _broke l-like a sapling_ in th-the first thirty m-minutes I couldn't t-take- you sh-should be d-disgusted." 

Mycroft quickly unclasped Sherlock's better arm. "I thought you were going to die too. When they put the gun to your head...I froze. I believed the mission was to keep John and you alive. You have every reason to hate me. It was an error that I'll never forgive myself for. I should have considered what would happen. I am not disgusted with you. I am greatly impressed that you are managing to understand what is happening."

Sherlock grabbed Mycroft's shirtfront and shook him lightly, meeting his eye, snapped back to himself. " _NO_ ," he said forcefully to his brother. 

"N-no. I s-sat next to John and ne-nearly killed him out of desperation. N-now he sm-smiles and h-he's going to live with Greg and put this behind him and _no_. It was the w-w-worst...worst...there's no f-feeling in the w-world like killing s-s-someone you love. I w-won't ever ask you to do th-that." 

He shook his head again and touched his neck, pressing along the long line he'd put there from his attempt to dispatch himself.. He'd do it himself when the time came. "Y-You saved me. He w-was never going to l-let me die. Never. I...I was s-s-so weak, My. I was so weak. I'm sorry. It's-terrifying. I couldn't...g-god the waterboarding...John...my John... he hurt him-m so badly. So badly." He went still again, dropping his eyes from Mycroft and speaking just at a whisper. 

"Not...he’s not _my_ John anymore though. You've g-g-got to kill Moran. John n-needs to go h-h-home." 

Mycroft was relieved that he wouldn't be put to the same test as Greg and Sherlock had been. "I don't want to kill you, and I don't want you to die. It would grieve me either way. It is a good thing that we kept John living, and now he smiles and laughs. Keep that in mind, brother. He didn't see a light at the end, and eventually reached it. You will too." He got in a more comfortable position, one he could sleep in, and dropped his head to the pillow. 

"I can have Moran killed at any time. I just didn't want to separate you two before it was necessary. I wanted to wait until you were physically healed and the two of you could live in separate flats right next to each other."

Sherlock burrowed closer to Mycroft, straining his bad arm as he twisted against the restraint, loathing being so trapped. 

"I...th-that's not..not...he- I know I d-don't n-need to explain. You m-m-must see his expression. 'Used to' and r-regret. Betrayal. F-fear and d-disgust. He may wish it were not s-so but..." he shuddered hard as he felt calloused fingers brush his neck.

_I can't wait to put the two of you together. He’ll scream and you know it's you hurting him, just with the beating of your heart. Beautiful, it's going to be beautiful._

Sherlock's lower lip wavered on him again and he exhaled harshly, deeply grieved. "H-he hurts me wh-when I scare him and I _always s-scare him and_ -" he shuddered, pulling at his brother. "I w-would be c-c-cruel to live an-anywhere near him." 

Mycroft took a moment before he responded to that.

"Right now it hurts you to scare him because you held out against it for so long. Moran hurt you and you believed it was for hurting John. You were made to think that John was in the other room being tortured, when he was not. But John is not always going to hurt when you are around. What if, when he was too terrified to speak, we all decided that we shouldn't press it because it hurt him? How then would his life be, if he couldn't tell us what was wrong, or what he wanted? You might be the best thing in his life down the road. We just don't know." 

Mycroft pressed a kiss to Sherlock's head and tried to look as if he were settling down to sleep. "He needs you around. I promise."

Sherlock shook his head, holding tight to Mycroft as he vocalized his grief. "He doesn't n-n-need me. He had to sp-speak and he ha-has to drink water and eat, but Greg loves him and h-he...he...adores Greg. They were best mates before and now they'll...I c-cc-can't do this, My. He's been hurt so terribly because of m-me and I...pl-please...kill M-Moran. Just put him down before he manages to slip your w-watch. If-f I...if h-he still wants to see me he'll...visit." 

He dropped the word as though it were the most disheartening, disappointing letdown of all time and space. When he spoke again, it was a rough, pained whisper. 

"I was prepared to say g-goodbye. I am too weak to do it s-so slowly." 

"If you don't want to ever live with John again, I understand. Why don't we stop trying to make plans while you're still recovering and instead take care of you? This isn't goodbye, Sherlock. The two of you are just beginning to become friends again. The next time you're feeling up to it, the two of you will watch the space show like you used to." Mycroft nodded as if that was the best course of action. 

"I'll have Moran killed within the day. If there is anything you want, within reason, I'll get it for you." He decided to wait until the day after tomorrow to have John moved out, to hopefully give them one more chance to be peaceful.

Sherlock nodded quietly. "I w-want to. God I..th-that's...that's all I _want_. Please d-don't mistake...I'm-m sorry, I'll sh-shut up. W-will you sh-show me a picture wh-when he's d-dead? I n-n-need to see. B-before John g-goes to his home I need-d to know he's safe." 

He shut his eyes, shivering as Moran's fingers brushed down his lower spine and he jerked away, whimpering, pressing his face to Mycroft's chest and breathing as deeply as he could make himself. 

"I w-will t-t-try not to be too m-much tr-trouble for you in f-future. O-old habits and all that-t."

Mycroft nodded and closed his eyes. "You're very selfless, Sherlock. I am so proud of you for your strength. I will always admire you for it. And about Moran...I will kill him and show you the pictures. I'll bring you the body, if you want." 

Mycroft was deeply impressed with Sherlock's ability to keep himself calm, and it was a stark contrast to how John had behaved at this point. 

"You won't be a burden to me. I'll be happy to help you."

Sherlock let go of Mycroft and trailed his fingers down his brother's side until he reached his pocket, dragging out Mycroft's mobile and pushing it into his brother's hand. "M-m-make it sl-slow," he breathed, looking up at his brother more steady than he'd been in the last day. "S-slow." 

He needed Moran to die screaming in the streets, needed to know it would not be a clean headshot without fear or anger, without pain. Mycroft knew how to order a messy hit, did so all the time to kick off wars and disputes in international dealings. Sherlock kept his hand around his brother's wrist for another moment before reaching up and pulling at his own hair gently, waiting for his brother to make the call. 

Mycroft picked up his phone and stared down at it. "This will mean John has to go..." He shook his head. Sherlock was well aware of the consequences of this call. 

He called it in, making his intention _very_ clear. Moran was to die screaming in pain. He was to bleed out, take hits to the legs for pain, and not simply be put down. Moran's body was to be taken directly to him.

"Sherlock, John will come back for you."

Sherlock closed his eyes as Mycroft rang off, the hit ordered, the intent clear. He exhaled slowly and began to slowly relax his body. His heart rolled in his chest knowing that this would be it, that John would go and he would...he whispered to his brother with his eyes closed. 

"Will th-they allow me to st-ay here, or will I be m-moved to hospital?" 

He kept his tone flat and steady. He knew Mycroft's hands would be tied, but it was goddamn worth it to have Moran's heart stopped. He'd accepted a long time ago that his comfort was exceedingly low on the scale of priorities. 

"I don't think I'll have any leverage to keep this place without the threat of Moriarty or Moran. You'll go briefly to a hospital, then the rest of your care will be provided at my house." 

Mycroft nuzzled against his baby brother, an action so contrary to the hit he had just ordered. It had given him great satisfaction to inform the man that this was not to be a clean cut drop. He wished he could have seen the man screaming in pain, but a body would be cathartic as well. 

"Moran is in pain right now."

Sherlock swallowed down the startling shock of fear that arced across his chest. He'd known John would leave and put his entire focus on that loss so much so that he'd not considered what would happen to himself in the immediate future. Hospital had been a risk, but one he'd not seriously considered. When he spoke, his voice was very small, wavering as his fingers tightened in his hair. 

"You'll...you'll visit...won't you? I- or call me? It helped..on the plane when you...if-f you'd just m-make the t-t-time to call that..." he stopped talking and forced himself to exhale slowly. 

"O-Okay. He's suffering. That's...that's good. I wish I could t-tell John but...i-it's good to know. He sh-should suffer for what he did to h-him." 

Mycroft shifted so Sherlock was lying more completely across his chest. "I will stay with you as much as I can. It will be brief. You'll be at my house as soon as you are medically away from any emergencies. It won't be long. I promise."

Sherlock swallowed down the whimper trapped in his throat and held his hand to his lips, shaking, nearly blacking out at the thought of being alone in a building surrounded by doctors. God, why had he not thought it through? Rash, _rash_ idiot that he was. 

He could hardly keep calm with his brother glued to his side. His heart began to pound against his ribs and he nodded slowly, a tear sliding down his cheek. 

"Th-thank you," he breathed. It was already starting. Would it be tomorrow then or…

"C-c-can I at least st-stay the night bef-f-fore...bef-f-ore I-" he lost hold of the fear then, whimpering and pulling at his hair. 

"M-make them p-p-put me-e to sleep? I- god I’m s-scared." 

"I will have them sedate you. The day after tomorrow, we'll leave. It will be so easy. You'll wake up, I'll be there, you'll be safe, and nobody will hurt you. The only difference is that it will be a different room and a different bed." Mycroft kissed the top of his head once more. 

"It won't be hard for you. I'll stay with you."

Sherlock nodded and tried to believe that. Here, his brother was right where his work was. It was much more feasible that Mycroft would be close, even when he wasn't in the room. When Sherlock was moved, Mycroft would be forced to leave. He tried to tell himself that it would be okay. It would. He'd...he'd manage. Mycroft would call when he forgot the room was safe and he'd...it would be fine. 

_It's fine. It's all fine._

Sherlock shuddered with the memory of John's easy, assuring words and tipped his head down, exhausted and filled with dread. 

 

"Do you th-think he'll s-say...say goodbye before he goes? Don't make him. H-he...I want him h-happy and s-safe. Don't make him."

"I was thinking that tomorrow the two of you could watch that space show. I'll need a day to shut this down. You two can have it to do whatever you want. He suggested you watch it it earlier today, all on his own and without any prompting. I'm sure he'll still want to." 

Mycroft knew that once the report that Moran was dead had gone through, he would lose his funding. 

Sherlock lay quietly for a few minutes, sinking into the bedding, laying as calmly as he could. His body ached, and he felt as sick as he ever did with a flu or some such affliction. He put his mental focus to his muscles, avoiding his legs and arm, too frightened to think on the pins or become too aware of them. Slowly he relaxed his hips, following the effort up his spine, easing the tension of his muscles around his ribs and shoulders. 

He finally spoke, whispering to his brother. 

"T-tell him to go home. He belongs in Baker Street. G-get...get e-everything that is m-mine out. All of it, My...all...e-everything. He c-can have my t-trust fund to pay for he and Greg's expenses. C-clear my room out and set it up for him with h-his things, the second set of stairs will be too m-much. I- I don't w-want him to be afraid at home. Mrs. Hudson can help find things that will remind him..." he was as relaxed as he was capable of making himself, letting slow tears roll down his face in quiet sadness, his mind calling up Baker Street and supplying him with images of John and Greg milling about. Despite the way it twisted his heart, his lips quirked up in a flash of a smile at the picture of John in his chair, a fire at his side. 

"H-he will need tomorrow to rest. C-can I tell him that- oh. Well. No, never mind. He won't care." 

It had made no difference to John that Sherlock had put a bullet in Moriarty directly in front of him. He'd likely care fuck all that Moran was dead. Sherlock had _nothing_ to offer John, not even by way of goodbye. 

"I'm...such a fool, brother," he whispered sadly, deeply resigned to the future he'd kicked off. 

"I'll offer him Baker Street. I'll use my own personal savings to keep him funded. He will be just fine. I don't think that Baker Street would be a good option for him right now. I believe he would be better off someplace separate until you are ready to be moved out of my house, that is, if you choose to be. You could live on Baker Street with him eventually. At least, that is what I had in mind." 

Mycroft's phone lit up and he answered, spoke curtly and hung up. 

"He's dead. Moran is dead. He won't ever come after you again." Gladness at his one tiny, successful gesture of protection, offered far too late, sparked in him and Mycroft was sincerely glad the man had finally met his demise. 

Sherlock reached out and curled his hand in the material just over Mycroft's heart, his own rolling hard in his chest. He closed his eyes and spoke quiet and honest. 

"Th-thank you...thank...thank you, brother," he whispered, his voice breaking over the gratitude. "You a-always have kept me..e-even when I did not want it. He's...oh god," he whispered in relief, tension he did not know he was carrying easing off of him at the realization. 

"H-he's...you're...th-they're sure? It's him? He's very...deceptive. I- oh g-god," his breathing hitched on a relieved sob and he swiftly quieted himself again. 

"J-John h-has to go home! I did all of this so h-he could go home. B-Baker Street will be fine so long as I'm n-not part of it." 

Mycroft didn't think it would be easy to remove everything that reminded John of Sherlock from the place, and it was likely the smell would upset him. Perhaps it would be good to desensitize him, a thought which prompted Mycroft to agree. 

"Alright. I'll send him to Baker Street. He'll be happy to be home, but I am certain he will miss you." 

Although Sherlock was devastatingly sad, Mycroft was more than appreciative of how lucid he was. It was much better than the screaming. 

"You've made a massive sacrifice for him. I'm proud of you."

Sherlock closed his eyes and shook his head. "Th-there is nothing of wh-which to be proud. I brought this on him. I've only p-paid settlement to a debt owed. Don't t-t-take him to Baker Street, s-simply offer it. He...he more th-than deserves the choice of what to do with himself. He likely will leave and n-never look back." While he managed to get the words out with calm steadiness, his chin wavered and another tear slid down his cheek. 

Mycroft nodded slowly and dropped his forehead down against Sherlock's crown. "I'll give him the freedom to live wherever he wants. I promise you I won't bother him to do anything he doesn't want to, but I also guarantee he will come back to visit you. Please, 'Lock, have hope." 

Sherlock looked down at Mycroft's hands and slowly took the mobile from him with shaking fingers. "H-He won't care, but I...I..." he shook his head and pressed the number next to Greg's name, holding the phone to his ear. 

Greg's voice was halting and wary as he answered, sounding muffled as though under bedding. Sherlock spoke in brittle, narrowly contained tones. "C-Can I...I s-s-speak with John?" 

His grip blanched as he gripped the phone painfully, listening to the muffled conversation. 

Under the blankets, Greg looked to John. "It's...it's Sherlock. He's asking to speak with you. It's...it's okay to decline, John. Today has been hard."

Mycroft decided that Greg would best judge whether it was a good idea or not to let him speak with John, and thus did not intervene, only offering comfort to Sherlock. 

John looked a bit confused. He had already spent over an hour with him, and spoken on the phone. Was every day going to be like this? He reached out and took the phone gently and held it a few inches from his ear. 

"Hey, it's me."

Sherlock closed his eyes, unintentionally pushing tears over his lashes, drawing in a deep, slow breath. He was utterly determined to be calm on the line with John. 

"Thank you for speaking with me after...after the trauma I've in-inflicted on you t-today, John," he said quietly, not quite whispering. He was pulling at his own hair brutally, savoring the pain. 

"I...I w-wanted to tell you that Moran has been removed as a threat. Tomorrow my b-brother will make arrangements a-and you...you're free. You're free, John. No o-one left to hurt you. I...I w-wanted..I don't know if-f it will comfort you or not, but I wanted it to." 

He drew in a deep, shaking breath, swimming in a mix of relief and desperate, choking grief, more apologetic than he'd ever in his life been. His voice, when next he spoke, was all raw honesty. 

"I've made arrangements for you to go wherever you want with G-Greg. Pl-please...when you think of me...when...I know I hurt you. I know. J-Just please, John...all I w-want-t is for you to live your life. You...that's it. I...forgive me, I'm g-going to apologize again, and it's never going t-to fix anything, b-but I am s-so sorry. I am. P-please tell G-Greg it's o-over." 

John looked up at Greg and put the phone against his chest to take a moment. 

"Moran is dead," he whispered, then picked the phone back up. 

"Sherlock, that's...That's wonderful. I'm glad. You didn't cause me trauma today. I thought we agreed that you didn't hurt me, right? You don't hurt me. Greg wouldn't let anyone hurt me. You're not hurting me. It's just Moriarty. It's his fault." 

John sat up and crossed his legs underneath himself. He leaned over and dropped his head all the way down to Greg's chest and closed his eyes. 

"I'll live. I'm going to live just fine, and I'll visit you. I promise." John scrubbed a hand over his face. 

"I'll be fine. Call me often, okay?"

Sherlock could hear John's efforts to endure him and shut his eyes, swallowing down the nausea. 

"J-John," he whispered, wanting to express so many things to him. He wracked his broken mind for words that would not come, just listening to John breathe on the other end of the line. 

He would never pick up the phone and dial John Watson again. 

Tears slid quietly down his face even though his eyes were shut, heart galloping in his chest. "I...o-okay. Have a...a...safe trip home," he finished off with, words failing him, grief twisting over his heart. It was a much better goodbye than being forced to blast John's grey matter over the concrete. He had to count his blessings. 

Sherlock pushed the phone back to his brother just before shoving his knuckles between his teeth, biting down hard enough that the pressure began to split the skin. 

John wasn't sure of himself anymore. He wasn't sure of his future. He didn't know where he would be in a few weeks, or months, or years. But mostly, he was unsure of how he should pursue a relationship with Sherlock. For the man's own good, he needed to keep him close. Logically, he knew that his fear would eventually wean away. Combined, it could mean that they would be friends again, even if only casual ones. 

"Yeah, I'll have a safe trip. Don't forget to call. I want you to know that you can call anytime. Goodbye, Sherlock." 

Sherlock pulled at his hair and pressed his elbow down across his face with enough pressure that it upset mostly healed bruises, dragging in a brokenhearted breath. 

It was done. 

It was all over. 

 

"D-done," he breathed to Mycroft, dejected and shattered, "i-it's done."


	14. Cracks

Mycroft stayed silent for quite some time. Everything had gone downhill. His life had been rather straightforward before this where Sherlock was concerned. He did his best to keep him out of drugs, violence and trouble, and kept as close an eye on him as the man would allow. But now, Sherlock was crying in his arms and John was afraid to shower. 

It was daunting. 

"It's done, but he isn't done with you."

Sherlock slowly drew back from his brother. 

"Th-there is no more r-reason for this fear. I h-have to stop. Th-thank you for keeping me company while I..." _was drowning, dying, falling apart in blistering terror_ , "struggled. I m-must now face my life for wh-what it is. Do go get some rest, brother. I know my arrangements will be quite labor intensive. If-f...if I could s-simply request a private room when I'm moved, th-that would be greatly appreciated." 

His goddamn _chin_ would not hold steady and the tears would not stop as his heart raced, but he forced himself to break all contact and speak calmly to his brother. Recovery was over. It was time to get it together, regardless of the icy pain of gripping, paralyzing fear in his chest. 

While he was glad for the ludic tone with which the words were spoken, Mycroft was heartbroken by the depression his brother was experiencing. 

"I'll get you a private room, and I'll check the staff. The entire staff. I'll have cameras, and you'll have a tablet. Anytime you get stressed, text me. Anytime you're uncomfortable, call me. Anytime you get scared, video me. I'll spend lots of time with you."

Sherlock nodded, not at all believing him in regards to time available. He pulled into himself, keeping himself quiet. "Th-thank you," he whispered. 

Mycroft was exhausted now, and settled down to sleep on Sherlock's bed next to him. "Alright, 'Lock. It'll be alright. Trust me on that."

Sherlock closed his eyes and whispered to his brother. "I've kept you up, s-leep." 

Mycroft knew he needed sleep, but wanted to be awake for his brother. Logically, though, he knew that he would need to be well rested for the work of getting Sherlock set up in a temporary hospital. "I'll stay right here. Wake me if you need me."

\-----------------------------------------------

John leaned into his protective barrier that was Greg and closed his eyes. "I don't like this. Are...does that mean you’ll be leaving?"

Greg bundled John in his arms and frowned. "Leaving? I'll be with you the entire time. It's going to be fine, and I think you'll be so much more comfortable. Moran is dead? That's...fuck, that's brilliant. We can go, John! We can go home. My home or Baker Street, we can go! You won't feel like a captive and it will be more comfortable and- it's good, yeah?"

John took several long, deep breaths to calm himself. "I know. I know. It's good. I know it's good. I'm just a bit nervous, I guess. Can't say why. I just...This is all safe. I'm used to this. I am not hurt here. I know Moran was dead, but before we said Moriarty was dead and that did fuckall for Sherlock. He doesn't have anyone else major. They'll all have scattered most likely. But I'm safe here. And I can help Sherlock from here. But, yeah, I suppose it's a good thing. Are you sure I won't be a bother?"

Greg hugged John to him and smiled despite John's worry. 

"He has his brother, and you are safe with me. Completely safe with me. I want you with me more than I can express. You are so far from a bother the suggestion is laughable. I love you, I'm so excited to take you home." 

John felt terribly guilty. "I want to keep Sherlock safe, Greg. I don't have much purpose without it. I love you, and I want to stay with you, but I don't feel like I can move past this. What I want..." John exhaled sharply and his cheeks puffed out. "What I want is to forget about Sherlock, and Moran, and _Moriarty_ , and be done with this. I want to be done. I want to live with you and be safe and comfortable. But I can't just leave him to suffer. That would be cruel. I know I can't move past, and it makes me feel good to help him." But _God_ , was it exhausting. 

Greg held John to him and cradled the back of his head. "Okay, John..it's okay. Whatever it is that you want."

John didn't quite know what he wanted, but decided that going back to Greg's place would be pleasant. "Can I stay in your room, or will I have to stay somewhere else?"

Greg nuzzled John close and rubbed his back. "We can go to my flat, John, we can go wherever you want. We can go wherever you want. I love you, and we will..will call Sherlock, yeah? It will work in the end, one way or the other. It will." 

John heaved a long, slow sigh and closed his eyes. He was too emotionally exhausted to stay awake, but too physically alert to sleep. 

"As long as you and Sherlock are happy, and nobody is hurting me, I'll be alright."

The night passed in a slow haze for Greg. They skipped dinner and John's last feeding, but John was finally not a walking xylophone and could afford the delay. Greg woke more often than was usual, pressing soft kisses to John's hairline if the man looked to be disturbed in his sleep, whispering gentle reminders of love and safety. Other times he simply shifted John in his arms, pulling him closer before he drifted back off to sleep. 

\----------------------

Sherlock took several hours to settle enough to actually rest. He drifted off with fear in his heart, aching with loss, blanketed with overwhelming relief that Moran was dead. He floated in the darkness for several hours before they began. 

_John was far ahead of him, rushing down the poorly lit hallway, a thick trail of blood in his wake. His gait was staggered, obviously wounded, the copper-sick tang of blood so strong in the air Sherlock could taste it as he screamed John's name, throat vibrating with the sound though it muffled around him as though submerged in water. He could not move fast enough, taking one infuriating step to ten of John’s._

_Greg suddenly dove over John from the side of the corridor as a shot rang out, taking John to the ground as a flash preceded the punching impact of the bullet that caught Sherlock center mass, shredding through his sternum, missing his heart, slicing through his aorta. Sherlock froze, blood bubbling up the back of his throat and pouring over his lips, turning him into a macabre fountain that he both felt in the first person, and saw in the third. He turned tearful eyes to John, reaching out for help as his knees went out from under him._

_John was up again, wrapped in Greg's arms. Greg held no expression, looking the other way as he leveled his weapon and fired at the attacker. John, however, was staring at Sherlock, tears sliding down his face as he clung to Greg, watching Sherlock die._

_"Oh, thank god. Thank god, he’s dying. It’s almost over, oh thank god" he cried in relief at watching Sherlock lyst to the side, the fire-agony fading down to icy, terrifying numbness. Sherlock tried to speak, hand outstretched and trembling as he choked on his own blood._

He snapped awake to the screaming of his cardiac monitors, face slick with tears, nose running in a mess of grief. 

Mycroft was right there when Sherlock woke, speaking softly, and called for a towel. "It's okay, 'Lock. It's okay. Nothing is going to hurt you."

Miller walked into Sherlock's room as the alarms tripped. He'd been watching Sherlock's heart rhythm for nearly an hour before it finally fell out of anything acceptable. He handed Mycroft a box of tissues as he walked up to Sherlock's side opposite his brother. 

"Chest hurting?" He asked softly, reaching out and pressing two fingers to the good side of Sherlock's neck. 

Sherlock's heart rolled in his chest and he flinched hard away from Miller, grabbing at his brother even as he nodded that yes, there was pain. He turned his face to Mycroft. "I'm-m okay," he breathed to himself, getting a decent look at his brother, breath still hitching on tears. Miller stepped back and killed the alarm, even though Sherlock's rhythm remained chaotic. He began to draw up medication to set it right as Sherlock spoke to his brother. 

"I...I d-d-didn't m-mean to wake you," he whispered, gritting his teeth as his heart rolled in his chest. 

Mycroft helped Sherlock keep his mind off Miller by cupping his face and directing his attention towards himself. "I slept well. There is no need to he sorry. You sounded very upset. Was it the dreams again?" 

Sherlock nodded as he reached up, dragging a shaking hand over his face. His chest ached and he was struggling to get past the dream.

Mycroft waited until Sherlock's breathing was slower to continue. "Would you tell me about it? I've heard it helps."

Sherlock closed his eyes and tried to gather his thoughts, distracted with Miller. 

"I....I...was shot. G-Greg saved John...and-" his heart rolled and he grit his teeth, "r-relieved to w-watch...watch me d-dying." 

"John would not be relieved if you were dead. He doesn't wish you away from him, and twice when your life was threatened, once by a gunshot and once by yourself, he came to your aid." Mycroft decided Sherlock would need to be cleaned soon, or his hair cut. 

Sherlock closed his eyes and allowed the tight pain in his chest to subside. Miller reset the alarm on Sherlock's monitor and took up a seat in the corner, clearly concerned with his patient.  
Sherlock whispered to his brother, "D-dream...I know...s-stupid."

Mycroft kissed his little brother's forehead. "It's not stupid at all. It is a normal function of the brain to dream, and nightmares after trauma are more than common. I am only trying to tell you that it was only a dream, and John in real life would have saved you." 

Sherlock's breath hitched on a quiet, sad sob, reaching for Mycroft in an attempt to bury against his brother's chest. "Please," he whispered, pride forgotten in his attempt to take a bit of comfort while he still could.  
Miller was up again, going to Sherlock's side and tucking the bus of the stethoscope in his ears before closing his eyes and pressing the drum to Sherlock's chest.

Mycroft obliged and pulled him closer to rest against his chest. He held him as a parent would a child who had awoken with nightmares, and in his mind, Sherlock was just a little boy again. 

"Anything you want, you just ask. Did you hear John say he wanted you to call him? He said that, not me. He wants to keep in touch until you two are able to live together."

Sherlock pressed his face to his brother's chest, his own aching terribly. Miller was at work pushing slow meds into his line as he clung to Mycroft.

"I'm af-fraid," Sherlock confessed in French, hardly audible. The words related to much more than the move to hospital.

"It's okay. I'm going to stay with you." Mycroft heart ached for him, but he couldn't keep the facility now that there wasn't an active need for it. 

"I won't leave you, my little 'Lock."

Sherlock grit his teeth as pain rolled sharp and fast through his chest. "Breathe," Miller instructed, making Sherlock tense in fear of him even as he dragged in a breath. Miller had his mobile out, calling for the cardiologist.

"When you have him moved, he needs ICU at the start."

Mycroft nodded. He had hoped that he could bring Sherlock back to his house, but that clearly wasn't an option. "I will take note of that. Thank you."

The medication swiftly dragged shock under, the shift in his muscles sharp and abrupt as he slipped unconscious without warning.

\----------------------------------------------------------------

John's dreams were unpleasant. There were no clear narratives, as his medication kept them somewhat docile. There would be the soft voice that drifted through his mind, saying threatening, macabre things in a sickeningly sweet voice. He imagined he would feel the grit under his eyes or the sting of sweat and blood, or the bizarre and blindingly painful feeling of a tendon stretching when it was pulled by a pair of pliers. But each time a dream began to form, each time John would began to stir, Greg's voice would dispel it like whispering smoke. 

In the morning, John was pleasant for the first few moments. It was only once he remembered that they would be leaving soon that he shuddered and buried his face down. 

Greg pulled John closer to him as he felt the man shift. "Hey," he said gently, nuzzling down to the side of John's head and speaking quietly to him, "I'm right here. Everything is okay. Are you alright?" He drew John to his chest and held him there, trying to comfort him. 

John gave a small, pathetic whimper and sat up. He had tears forming in his eyes, but did not appear to be dangling on the edge of panic. His chin quivered and he gave a dejected exhale. 

"I'm scared to leave. I don't particularly like being a prisoner, but I'm safe here. I'm safe and nobody hurts me."

Greg nodded as he wrapped up close to John. "I'll be with you, you'll be safe. I promise you'll be safe. Are you sure you don't want to go home?"

John debated the question before finally shaking his head. "It won't be right. Sherlock won't be there, and I'll be different, and nothing will be the same. I just want to stay with you."

Greg sat John up and stretched, looking around the room. "I've only one bed at the flat. Are you alright to share it for a bit? I'll need to make room for your things once we get there."

John stretched and gave a long yawn. "Well, I don't think I would be able to sleep without you there, so...I'm alright with it, you could say. I don't think I'll be alright without you for a while."

Greg nodded and scrubbed a hand over his head. 

"It's...this is a good thing though, John. Us leaving. You'll be in a proper home and you can just relax. We'll get this eating and drinking business sorted. You'll be able to focus on your recovery better and I've several birds who always perch just outside the sitting room window, they like my balcony. You'll have more to look at and more of the world to see. It will be good. I'll stay with you just like here, yeah?"

John nodded, but didn't seem very comforted. His eyes were just a bit too wide and his shoulders hunched.

"Are you going to be going back to your normal life? I mean, I'm not going to ask you not to, I get it, you've friends and children for god's sake. I just want to know when I've got to figure out how to be alright on my own." 

He put his hand over his mouth to cover his trembling chin, and tried to play it off as just resting his head down.

Greg settled down directly beside John and wrapped an arm around John's back, covering the side of John's face with the flat of his palm as he pulled John against his chest in a sideways hug. 

"John, you _are_ my normal life. I've money coming in, the bills are paid. My ex-wife took the kids and is off out of the country, I get to have them holidays sometimes. You are my normal life. I'm not leaving you." He pressed a kiss to the top of John's head and rubbed gently at his back. 

"It's alright, John. All that's changing is the scenery. I'm sure Paul will still come to check on us, and Miller will help me with whatever I need to know for your medications and how we are going to keep you fed and hydrated, all of that. It's going to be okay."

John breathed a long, slow exhale and closed his eyes. With his head on Greg's chest, kept in place by his palm, he was entirely safe. 

"I don't want to be a burden to you. Not after everything you've done. I mean, christ, you had a good job, and you just left it to help me. I can not tell you how grateful I am. I was in such a bad place, and you came, and you dragged me out of it even though I wasn't willing. I'll never repay you for saving me from that."

The words were entirely unexpected. Greg blinked slowly and tipped his head down, resting the tip of his nose against the crown of John's head. He breathed in slow and deep, closing his eyes as he throat swelled up on him, finally whispering, "I love you. It's payment enough that you want to stay, that's all I wanted." 

He squeezed John to him once more and dragged in a slow, deep breath. 

“This is a change, but it's a good one. It is. You'll...you'll like my flat I hope, and whenever you are ready you can go back to Baker Street, I'll go with you if you want. We've got to decide what you want taken to my place."

John had been in a dark, swirling chasm of fear and unknown pain. Greg had walked willingly into it and pulled John out, even though he had protested against it, and fought the man who would save him. John decided that if Greg hadn't come to him, he would still be in that place, regardless of any progress he might have made with a different constant companion. 

"You say 'if you want' as if I won't want you with me. I just wanted to tell you that I'll never not want you with me. I get anxious when you're gone."

Greg nodded, holding John tight. "Then I'm with you. Don't worry, John. I'm not going to leave you when you are frightened or need me, and you and I will live together, okay? I don't mean to belittle how you feel, I just don't want you to feel trapped either. I love you. I'm with you. Do you think you can have a bit of ice today? We'll do a bit of ice and decide what you want to take to my flat, and that's all you've got to do, alright?" 

John melted into him and relaxed fully. "Good. Thank you. I was- Oh, I was supposed to have some applesauce yesterday. Can I have some now to make up for it?" 

John was distressed at his discovery and scowled. 

Greg kissed the top of John's head again before easing him away so that Greg could stand up. He walked passed the calendar, hoping the scrawled ' _Sherlock_ ' on the day wouldn't upset John, grabbing a cup of ice and a cup of applesauce for the both of them. Greg added water to his cup. 

He gave John his portions on a little tray beside the bed and sat down next to him, ripping the lid off his own applesauce, utterly starving. 

"Course you can make up a day, John, that's fine."

John was slowly becoming more used to the idea of eating and drinking, and didn't get the usual tremble until he had the little cup of applesauce in his hands. "I don't like missing days. I shouldn't start missing days. If I miss days, I'll make excuses. Don't let me miss days, alright?" 

Greg nodded around a ridiculously large mouthful of applesauce, the effect unintentionally comedic. His cheeks pinked a bit as he covered his mouth, taking a moment to swallow it down before he dragged the back of his hand across his lips. 

"Yeah, John, only under extenuating circumstances, ok? You had one hell of a hard day yesterday. You sort of worked on an exchange rate, so it's still all fine." 

One hour and a phone call with Sherlock had taxed him to the extreme, and then word of Moran and the shift in living situations was a tremendous amount for John to handle. Greg honestly just wanted to bundle him up and take him home right then. 

He drew out his phone to text Mycroft, curious about plans. 

_I just want to get John out of here. Is there a reason we need to wait?_

John let out a clipped laugh at Greg's comedic mouthful and looked back at his own cup. If Greg was enjoying himself, why couldn't he? He took the spoon and took a small bite. He was hungry, which made eating just a bit more stressful. "I hate eating. I really, really hate this. I'm not hungry. I am not hungry." 

_I was hoping for John to meet with Sherlock one last time and possibly watch a bit of the space show._

Greg set his mobile aside, choosing to focus on eating with John for the moment, and tackling the issue of John and Sherlock saying goodbye for a few minutes later. No matter what happened, John was unlikely to be well enough to handle moving between Greg's flat and whatever hospital Sherlock ended up at any time soon. He drew in a deep breath and hoped he was important enough for John to live for all on his own. 

"It's alright if you're hungry, mate," Greg said conversationally, digging at another spoonful. John had to constantly be starving, and had just begun to interpret the sensation as normal.

"Go on, have a go, it's not eating, it's slurping apple magic off a spoon." 

John stared at his 'apple magic' and mentally abused himself for being such a coward. It's just eating! But that voice, the soft one, the one Moriarty used when he wanted his words to stick, was bouncing around in his brain between his ears and causing some amount of distress. "I'm not really hungry," he remarked and took another bite. 

"I'm not hungry at all." 

The words were slightly robotic, like a line rehearsed far too many times, but he was eating nonetheless. 

Greg slowed down with his food and looked over to John, alarm rising as John spoke between bites. That...that had to be something important, something _wrong_. He cleared his throat and budged John's shoulder as he took a bite, hoping to derail him from speaking just yet. 

"What's it taste like?"

"I'm not-" John blinked at Greg and replayed the question he had asked. John thought he had heard 'aren't you hungry' but upon mental replay found himself at fault. 

"I..Its sweet like apples, I guess." It had stopped his mental loop and pulled him into a frame of reality for just a moment. 

"Why?"

Greg smiled, "Oh, just wondering what it was for you. For me it's my gran's kitchen, fresh from school, a snack and a hug. 'Mean, it tastes like apples, but it's a bit more than that for me. Just wondered if you feel like a kid eating it too?" 

He bumped John's shoulder fondly again as he happily tucked back into his cup. 

"Uhm, yeah," John continued, and took another spoonful of sauce. 

"I used to have them in the summer a lot when I was a kid. My neighbor's mom used to let us have them, the whole lot of us, and they had a pool too so everyone was over there." 

He had no idea what exactly prompted him to remember that. 

"That's the ticket right there," Greg said as he gestured aimlessly with his spoon, "Friend with a pool? Aye, it's the best when you're a kid. All summer long man, what fun muckin' about with your mates, havin' a splash and eatin' a burger for lunch? Glass bottle of coke, ice still stuck on the side, sitting in a wet towel on a sun-heated wood bench. Good days, those. No wonder we were so in shape as kids, it was so easy to be active."

John took a few more little bites and watched Greg talk. "Yeah, his mum was the best. Always let us come over. There was another kid a few streets away with woods behind his house. We used to play soldier, or Indians, or pirates, or some damn thing that let us attack each other with sticks." 

Greg smiled as he dug into his cup again, nearly out of food already. "That's a good spot of luck with that bunch as a kid, well done John," he said with a mouthful and a smile. John seemed to be eating without paying much attention to the act, something he was incredibly glad of. 

"Did you stay home every summer?"

"Well, we moved around a lot, but I always managed to find some kids to run around with. Never had much trouble fitting in." 

He took the smallest spoonfuls he could rationalize until he was just more than half way. Speaking helped, but the nagging voice in the back of his mind didn't quite go away. 

"Not hungry," he muttered to himself. 

Greg nodded, "Yeah, I feel that. We moved all the time. Twelve different schools for me before Uni. My Dad was in the military, and then they split up, my folks. Mum did her best but we had to keep moving all the time. Was a rough go of it for a while. Bit of fun though too, moving about. Gives a bit of a fresh start, lets you remake yourself to more of what you wanted to be the last time." 

"I get that," John replied and tried to bury himself in the conversation instead of the speaking in his mind. "Moving let you sort of become a new person, and it was always easy for me to get in with the group I wanted, but it would have been nice to have a friend for more than a year. Suppose that doesn't really matter." 

His hand dropped and he shut his eyes. 

"I'm having trouble."

Greg set his cup to the side before sliding an arm around John's back, leaning in and taking the cup and then the spoon away. 

"You did wonderful, that's all you need to satisfy the calendar." 

He set John's things down and pulled him back into a solid, warm embrace. 

"Let's do a bit of breathing, yeah? Follow with me. You did very well. Ready? In for three..." he overdramatized his breathing for John to follow, carding his fingers through John's hair in an effort to help keep him calm and present. 

John was grateful for the breathing exercise that distracted him from the food.

"Okay...I can breathe. I can breathe. I'm okay. I'm okay. I'm not hungry. Not hungry."

He rocked himself back and forth slowly, rhythmically, and calmed himself down. 

"I'm having trouble with m-my mind," he said as calmly as he could manage. 

Greg hated when this happened; when John's pupils slowly dilated and his words tripped over themselves, the slow slide of panic tilting him off his steady level. He always scrambled to catch John back, despite always failing to do so. 

"We haven't gone to see if your bird nested. Let's have a walk, we'll go see him again. I know you like animals, do you have a favorite?" 

He stood up, reaching down and pulling John up with him slowly, intent to start walking them out before the voices in John's head won the battle. 

John shifted and dug his hand in his hair. 

"I just..I like ones that can fly..I like birds and-and even d-dragons and-" The claws of panic were slowly dragging him down, speaking quietly and whispering that he had eaten, and that was against the rules. 

"I was okay last time," he muttered and shook his head to clear it.

"I'm okay. It's bothering me again and-" he gave a small whine and curled in on himself." 

Greg's heart twisted as he shifted around John, sitting down at John's head and gently lifting him enough that it would rest in his lap. He sank his fingers into John's hair, the other hand rubbing John's back slowly.   
"It's alright, John, let's keep breathing, okay? Nothing bad is happening, nothing bad is going to happen. I love you, I'm right here. Start telling me important dates in your life, like your birthday and uh, years you moved, first year you held a girl's hand, anything like that. Breathe and just tell me some dates. Keep right here with me." 

John flinched hard and put the heels of his hands over his eyes. "B-Born in-" 

_Oh, what does it matter? Who cares when you were born, or when you held a girl's hand? You've been disobeying me. Would you like me to let you choose? Whips or knives?_

John latched onto Greg's questions and stared him in the eyes. 

"It's- he's s-saying I-I-" _Articulate!_ "H-He said I ha-ave to choose," John clenched his jaw. "I'm safe, w-we moved when I was five, a-and seven, t-ten- Greg, I don't w-want t-to panic!"

Watching John's fear of fear was heartwrenching. John had spent so much time in fear he was now fearful of panic itself. 

_He's saying I have to choose_. Greg kept his expression gentle and steady, sweeping his hands through John's hair on both sides of his face, cradling his head now. 

"You don't have to choose anything, John. He's not here. I'm here. I'm protecting you and I'd be damned if anyone laid a finger on you. You're not going to panic, you're going to stay right here with me. If you stay with me, you won't panic. Where were you living when you were ten, John? Did you like it?"

John didn't want to fall into the churning, icy waters of panic. He wanted to remain on land where he was in control, but the whirlpool continued to drag at his feet as if they were weighted. John poured all his mind into the one question and managed a small answer. 

"At t-ten, I think it w-was the...I was...small h-house, b-but a big yard, l-lots of trees to climb-" John gasped as if in unexpected pain and his hand flew to his chest where the JM was carved. 

_You can't get away from me, not really. It's hard to silence a voice once it's made a home._

"Greg! I d-don't w-want to-to-" he grabbed the plush comforter and pulled it over his head. A scream tried to force it's way out from between his teeth and he valiantly tried to hold it back. 

_Christ_ , Greg loathed this, despised his inability to ever help John in this. He felt as useful as a man with a grease-soaked hand reaching to another tumbling over a cliff face, able to slow his fall only, nothing more. Greg reached down and pulled the comforter from John's face. 

"John, think about how Moriarty looked after Sherlock killed him. Think about it. You watched the lights go out, you watched him die. He's gone, he cannot hurt you. He's not going to be a voice you hear forever. Think about what happened. He lost. He died at your feet. He's gone. I've got you, John, I'm here. Moriarty is _not_ here. Just Greg and John, there is only Greg and John." 

John kept the blanket wrapped around his head protectively and curled himself against Greg. His breathing was erratic and shallow, but he was clearly attempting to keep it under control. "H-He w-was dead and-" 

_Dead, but not silent._

"-and _silent_ ," John spat in an attempt to show his contempt for the voice. "I know h-he's not-" Pure terror ripped through him as the sound of a whip cracking echoed in his mind and John screamed into Greg's chest. 

"I h-heard it!" He cried, "I-It h-hurts!"

Greg held John to him as best he was able, desperately wrapping him up in an attempt to protect him from whatever was terrifying him. 

"What did you hear, John? You're right, he's not here, he's not here and no one is hurting you. You've got me on your right and the warm blankets at your left. The room is clear, we are alone together. Tell me where you are and what is happening to you."

"'M in M-Mycroft's p-place, with y-you, and I'm o-okay, j-just scared," 

_Tell me who hurt you._

John hadn't heard that phrase in his mind for months, and the word Sherlock came readily to his lips. "No," he pleaded with as much defiance as he could muster. 

"Not...not him, I-" John found Greg's hand and held it tightly. 

"P-Panicking," he breathed and grit his teeth. "Help m-me, please, _please_!" 

Greg held on just as tight, willing the force of his grip to somehow save John from his own mind. He briefly considered trying a chaste kiss again, as the last time had completely derailed the panic. There was no way he was going to push it though, and in light of what Greg knew now as far as Moran's depravity, the idea made his toes curl. If there were ever to be any of that, it would be at John's very lucid initiation of it. 

"John, listen to _me_. You are going to get through this. Keep breathing with me, keep your eyes fixed on me. I've got you. You're safe. Tell whoever else you are hearing that they can fuck right off." 

John clung to Greg and tied to keep himself steady. "L-listening t-to you," he repeated and kept Greg's voice in his mind. Perhaps if he focused only on him, on his voice, the way he smelled, how warm he was and how he looked when he smiled, then John could get through this. 

_You're not being very cooperative, John. I told you to tell me who was hurting you. Or should I just start carving again? Perhaps I'll have Greg do it._

John let out another scream and muffled it with a pillow. He was in a full blown attack, and completely aware of it. He knew where he was, he knew he was safe, but at the same time he was completely certain that Moriarty would be there to beat him when he opened his eyes. 

"L-Leave me alone! G-Get OUT! GET OUT!" 

Greg remained exactly where he was, his heart twisting violently as John looked at him and screamed at him to leave. He pressed one hand over the carving at the center of John's chest, the other wrapped around John's fingers and held tight. 

"I love you. I'm so sorry you're hurting. I love you, John. I'm right here," he said honestly, his old, dear friend Guilt wrapping him into a solid embrace, nearly stealing his voice. He kept as steady as he could for John, loathing that he'd failed _again_ to do him a damn bit of good. 

John clutched his head and bit down on the inside of his lip. He tasted blood, which he thought would center him, but what else had he tasted consistently with Moriarty? 

_I could make Greg cut you. Every man has a breaking point._

John shook his head and tears poured down his face. 

"G-GET OUT!" He screamed and sobs wracked his body. He knew Moriarty wasn't really there, but the voice was still lodged inside his head. 

"OUT! G-GO A-AW-WAY!" John had a death grip on Greg, and faintly remembered that he would be hurting him by panicking. 

Responding to John's grip on him, Greg leaned down and wrapped him up tight, curling his chest down over John, shielding him, resting his chin just next to John's shoulder. His lips were very near to John's ear and he carried on trying to speak to him. 

"It's Greg. Greg has you, John. I love you. You're safe. It's just Greg, I love you..." he repeated the words, over and over as he rocked John lightly in his lap, clutching him tight, sheltering him physically despite failing to mentally. 

Each time John thought he was making progress up the slippery slope, Jim's soft voice would play once more and he would slide back down. 

_I bet it would only take two months of torture for me to get Greg to beat you to death. It wouldn't hold like your conditioning has, and he'd kill himself after, but I could do it._

John could hear his protection very distantly and fought towards the words. 

"D-Don't beat me," he stammered, not out of fear that he would, but in an attempt to articulate his fears in the only way he knew how; a plea for mercy. 

"Safe. Safe. M'ok-kay." 

John's terrified plea ripped through Greg's chest and he closed his eyes for a moment, breathing through it. 

"No one is going to beat you. You're safe, that's right John, that's right. You're safe. I've got you, listen to me and come back. Moriarty is dead, he can't hurt you, he's dead. Moran is dead too, they are dead, they can't do anything more. I love you. I have you. Come back, come back to me, John, right here. I love you," he carried on in repetition, helpless in the face of this, utterly useless. Tears stung at his eyes and he forced himself to keep his cheeks dry. 

John was at war in his mind. He teetered on the edge of what was real and what was in his mind as the two voices conflicted. There was Greg's, kind and loving, calling for John to come back to him, and there was Moriarty's, sickeningly sweet and deceptively calm. 

"I-I-I'm s-sorry," he gasped as he felt himself tip over backwards. A long, agonized scream tore out of his chest and bounced around the room. John arched his back as if in physical pain and his ludic mind was torn to shreds. 

Greg gathered John closer as the man began to thrash, not particularly restraining him, just holding him in his panic. He carded his fingers through John's hair, dropping down to repeat nothing more than, "I love you. Come back," knowing he'd lost. He could not help the tears streaking down his face as he held John to him, feeling as though he were standing passively by, watching John be tortured, useless to do fuckall about it. 

John dissolved into pure panic and thrashed, screamed and begged for nearly twenty minutes before he exhausted himself. His lucid mind was a feeble, tortured animal, hiding in the dark recesses of his skull and refusing to come out. Eventually he wore himself down and stayed in Greg's arms, limp, muttering and whimpering in the physical and emotional aftershocks of exhaustion and pain that preceded a panic attack.

When John finally went lax, sweating and white as a sheet in Greg's arms, Greg leaned back into him and drew in a few shaking breaths, trying to calm himself down. Watching John go through his own private hell, unable to reach him, fucking _failing_ to help even after John had told Greg how scared he was, how deeply he didn't want to panic, was utterly agonizing. He eased them to their sides, keeping John protectively in his grip, dragging the blankets over them and whispering softly. 

"I'm sorry, god I'm sorry," he said as he brushed the overly long strands of John's hair away from his sweat-slicked brow, rocking them as they lay there. 

"I love you, it's..." it was decidedly not _okay_ , "safe. It's safe and I've still got you." He kept this up for the better of ten minutes before regretfully texting Mycroft back. 

_John's just had a horrific panic attack. I don't know if he'll be able to come by today. Is...will that be a major problem?_

John was completely still. His eyes were half open and stared straight ahead, his breathing was shallow, and his face looked as though he might be sleeping. In his exhaustion he could think of almost nothing, other than that it was over. 

It was only when he began to recover from the attack that he gained the energy to cry. Such attacks hurt him so terribly that he had to regain his strength just to weep. Tears rolled down his face and the occasional hitched breath or pitiful sob were the only sounds that came to him as he laid limp in Greg's arms.

It was another twenty minutes before he regained enough physical and emotional strength to speak, at which point he could only manage a few words. "Greg...Tired."

_I had hoped that he would be able to see Sherlock. If his psychological state demands he stay here one more day, I'm sure I won't have trouble._

Greg held John close as he cried, each pained, sadden sound squeezing at his heart. "You can sleep, John, you can just go to sleep. I have you," not that it did a damn bit of good as he lay next to John, his own cheeks quite damp as he ached for his friend's pain, "you can sleep. I'll keep watch." 

It took him nearly half an hour before he replied to Mycroft. 

_I'll keep you updated. I'm not sure how much good a meeting between them will do, but we'll try if you think it will help Sherlock._

With a feeble nod and a halfhearted attempt at looking up at Greg, John used some of his precious energy to press his face down onto Greg's chest. He was exhausted after a few seconds, however, and gave a sad whimper. 

John cried himself to sleep, reduced to a childish state of exhaustion and fear. His breath hitched occasionally and his fingers curled around Greg's shirt, but he was far too tired to wake up. 

_Whatever you can manage._

Miller came back into Sherlock's room just as Sherlock himself began to stir, fighting his medication as always. 

"That wasn't intended to knock him out, but he fights it anyhow. We need to keep him on oxygen steadily, his heart is still under a great amount of strain just with healing his body. Damaged from the prior infections, it's making him struggle," he explained to the elder Holmes as he ran the tubing for oxygen back under Sherlock's nose. 

"I'm going to tape this down, as he often drags his face when he's frightened," Miller further explained, laying tape down just at the high rise of Sherlock's cheekbones near his temples. 

"Do you have any questions?" 

Sherlock shifted on the bed, grimacing in his effort to wake up. 

Mycroft had a difficult couple of hours ahead of him, and though his tendency was to do everything himself, decided to delegate some of his responsibilities in order to get Sherlock set up in a hospital as quickly as possible.

"How long do you believe it will be before I am able to take him home?"

Miller swept his eyes over Sherlock after getting the oxygen back in place. He inhaled deeply as he slid his hands into his pockets. 

"Well, if this were any other patient, I'd say not to expect him home for a few months. ICU for likely seven more days at a minimum, assuming no other major events happen. He's essentially been in ICU care here, so this is not a worsening of his condition. After ICU? Depends on what can be made available to him in whatever home you plan on taking him to. He's going to need hospital level care much longer than John, simply due to the sheer amount of damage meted out in a very short time. John had unfortunately mostly healed by the time we got him. Minor breaks and significant soft tissue trauma. Sherlock still has healing damage from two gunshot wounds under all of this. The one that punctured his chest cavity being the most troublesome." 

Sherlock shifted slightly as he struggled against the medication, desperately trying to wake up.

Mycroft hushed his brother and petted his hair softly. "Shh, Sherlock, it's alright."

He turned his attention back to Miller and nodded gravely. "His physical abuse was very abrupt, and he was in no condition to endure it. At my house...I'm hoping to have a nurse with him and a doctor on call. I've a spare room I can use, and a savings account to fill the financial needs."

Miller nodded, understanding what Mycroft wanted. 

"I understand it will be difficult for you while he is in hospital. I'd like to put my name in the hat for a physician to attend him. I already know his situation well, and he is familiar with me when lucid. Continuity of care is extremely important. If you are interested, I'd prefer to stay on. I'd like to keep on with John, too. This is, of course, if you've been satisfied with my work."

Sherlock reached blindly, wrapping his fingers in his own shirt, dragging in a shallow, pained breath. 

Mycroft was by no means a sentimental man, but he was incredibly relieved to hear that Miller wanted to stay. 

"Yes, I would appreciate that greatly. Sherlock is...god, he's been through far too much. He is used to you, even if he does get confused." 

Mycroft stopped and took Sherlock's damaged hand in his own and held it close. 

"I'm hoping for Sherlock, John and Greg to live together once this is all settled."

Sherlock whimpered as he came back up, blinking rapidly, face drawn down in a pained grimace. His gaze fell first to Miller before swiftly searching for Mycroft. He settled nearly immediately, taking in slow, careful breaths. 

"H-hurts," he whispered, feeling every single beat of his heart as though the damned thing were trying to shift glass through the valves. 

Miller nodded, "You've had a bit of an event. It's a bit painful, but you're in a normal rhythm. Try to re-" he swiftly bit off the word, watching as Sherlock began to tense even before he finished, "remember that you're safe and being carefully watched," he corrected, stepping back to give Sherlock room. 

Sherlock turned his eyes on Mycroft, drawing in swift, clipped breaths and holding for several seconds before exhaling. 

"I...wh-at day...is he st-still..." 

Mycroft kept eye contact with Sherlock and breathed slowly to give him a rhythm to match. "You're safe. You're alright. John is still here. He's just down the hall; safe and comfortable." 

His own heart ached for Sherlock, but he couldn't look distraught at the moment.

Sherlock quieted at that information, pacing his breathing as much as the tightness around his chest would allow. He reached down, pulling Mycroft's wrist closer so that he could read the time on his watch. It was the first time he'd made effort to read anything at all since he'd returned, and he found with an acute shock of fear that he could not make sense of what he was looking at. He swept a shaking thumb over the watchface as thought to clear away an obstruction, narrowing his eyes as he tried to focus. 

He couldn't tell if he simply could not _see_ what he was trying to read, or if he couldn't make sense of it, but all that stood where the watch hands and the small numbers should be was...nothing. He let go of Mycroft, dragging a hand over his face. 

"I c-can't see it...I- g-give me something...something I c-can read. I n-need something w-with written words." 

Mycroft looked over at Miller in question, then dug out his phone. 

"I could pull up a text, if the screen doesn't bother you. If you'd like, I can have some books brought in. I'm sure whatever is ailing you is temporary." 

Mycroft wondered if, like he had seen on the tapes with John, Sherlock's eyes had been threatened. 

"Anything," Sherlock clipped back, actively fighting panic. He had his sight, why the bloody hell couldn't he read? If he had lost that ability...oh god, what was he going to do? John was gone, the work was gone, and now his ability to _read_? He struggled against the restraints on the bed, trying to sit up. Miller caught sight of what he was trying to do, putting a hand on Sherlock's shoulder to steady him as he slowly began to raise up the head of the bed. 

Sherlock paid Miller no mind, bordering hard on the edge of overwhelming fear. He reached out for the phone, desperate to see if he could make sense of any of it.

Mycroft pulled up an unimportant text from one of his secretaries and zoomed in just a bit before handing it to Sherlock. "Keep in mind that you aren't fully recovered yet. You still have a ways to go, and it wouldn't be surprising if you're having trouble."

Sherlock pulled the mobile close to his face, staring at it. It was as though the area of the screen was simply missing. There was not darkness in its place, simply...a gap in data. He pinched his eyes closed and cleared his throat, forcing himself to look again as his already pained heart began to race. 

"Th-there's _n-nothing_ ," he whispered, his knuckles blanching on the phone. 

"I...I c-can't...oh g-god I c-can't even _read_?" He set the phone back down beside him, utterly crushed, that snap of cruelty one blow too many as he lay there, reclined in pain, struggling to convince himself that he'd somehow survive with what had been left to him. He fought the burn of tears, his chin shaking as the gross, bitter injustice settled over him. 

He wouldn't be able to text with John, or read his blog. He'd held on to those options, and just like that they'd been stripped away. 

Mycroft didn't know how to respond. If Sherlock couldn't read, most of his entertainment, occupation, and ability to communicate with John for the time being would be gone. 

"It's alright. It won't be gone forever. Your vision will come back, I'm sure." Mycroft released him for just a moment to lean over and get a pen, which he held to the back of his hand. 

"Can you see this?" He made a mark on his skin; not a letter, just a simple squiggly line.

Sherlock looked down at the mark, nodding as a tear spilled over his lashes. Miller whispered to Mycroft that he'd go contact a neurologist to evaluate Sherlock in hospital, leaving off that he suspected a psychological aspect to this situation as well. He let himself out of the room, leaving the brothers to their privacy. 

Sherlock tipped his head back to his pillow, face to the ceiling, grimacing as he struggled to command his breathing again. 

"I don't understand," he whispered, his voice tight with narrowly contained emotion, "I...g-god I'm _trying_ , of all th-the things..." his chin wavered on him again, though he kept a handle on himself, "h-he's going to f-forget me. John will f-forget me. I-" he exhaled a trembling breath, overwhelming sadness finally getting the better of him as tears silently began to slide down his cheeks. 

Mycroft put the phone and pen down and pulled Sherlock closer against his chest. "Sherlock, listen, you are going to be alright. You're still recovering. You will get better with time. You can't expect yourself to be functioning at normal level so soon. Please, just rest for now. I've got the future sorted. I've got it all sorted. You do trust me, don't you?"

Sherlock nodded, covering his eyes with his palm as he tried to get a grip on himself. There was no way Mycroft had the future sorted, but he'd allow him the reins for now. It was not as though he could take them for himself. His chest made each breath a struggle, painful and frightening. Now that he knew he was cut off even from reading and writing, his already bleak outlook seemed so impossibly he could hardly consider the next day. The next day, when he'd be forced to tackle isolation at least for a little while. He groaned under his breath and tried to keep himself calm. 

"Is h-he at least going home?"

Mycroft checked his phone. 

"He is either going to Baker Street or to Greg's flat. Either way, he will be safe and comfortable. It won't be difficult for him. We'll have everything he needs taken care of, and he'll call you often. I heard him say he wanted to. Remember that?" 

Mycroft needed to give Sherlock something to look forward to. 

"I'll set up video calls so you two can see each other in the hospital."

Sherlock's gut twisted at the idea of seeing John on a screen. Even listening to him over the phone had caused Sherlock great distress, though he supposed he could get used to it. Baker Street was central and very close to many of the area hospitals, but Greg's flat would make travel much more difficult. Not that it was relevant anyhow, John was highly unlikely to feel safe out of doors for some time.

When John spoke to him, whether it be in person or not, there was always cringing hesitation. John forced himself to visit, to speak with Sherlock. 

_I loved you before, I might be able to again._

He swallowed hard and tried to remember those blissful few minutes when he'd believed John was asking to live with Sherlock again, speaking of being reachable when they were sleeping. It had been such an intense, overwhelming relief. He took to making an effort at slowing his breathing, allowing himself a moment to pretend that John had not followed the offer to help with Sherlock's night terrors with the hypothesis that he'd be able to learn how to enjoy Sherlock's company as a friend again. 

At least in hospital, in the hours his brother would be forced to be away, he'd have a chance to do something about all of this. It would be fine, and much easier where he wasn't always in the company of someone. His brother would be relieved of an impossible burden to carry with his position in the government, and John would be able to forget and move on without guilt. So, for the moment, he let himself soak in the memory of those few minutes where he'd had a taste of what having John back felt like. 

When Sherlock was silent, Mycroft dropped his head down to his shoulder and took a deep breath. "You're doing wonderfully. I'm so proud of you. I'd never be able to handle it as well as you have, and I know that for a fact. You're a wonderful man." 

Mycroft sent a text to Greg then and prayed for a positive response. 

_Can John see him today? He's lost the ability to read. He needs comfort. I'll have a movie on when he gets in and they can just sit together. He needs it._

Greg woke at the feel of his mobile buzzing in his pocket. John was still bundled close to his chest, and they were warm in the protective nest of the bedding. He blinked several times to clear his vision before reading the text. 

_He's lost the ability to read._

Greg closed his eyes as his heart turned over in his chest. That would be devastating to Sherlock, there was no other way to summarize. He checked his watch, noting that they'd been resting several hours. John had gone down hard and in sharp, unrelenting fear. He had no idea where John would be, emotionally, when he woke up. He replied to Mycroft's text. 

_I'll do everything I can. John's not been stable today, but I'll try._

He then gently pressed a kiss to John's forehead, speaking softly. "John?" 

_Give him some medicine then. It's important that Sherlock sees him again before he leaves._

When John woke, the tendrils of emotional pain from the attack were still clinging to him and he whimpered softly. With his eyes still closed, he could remember what had been happening just before he slept, and that was unimaginable terror. 

"Greg?" He whispered, eyes still closed and face in a forced state of relaxation as if pretending to be asleep. 

"Am I okay?"

Greg pulled John closer, Mycroft's demands flaring protective defensiveness through his veins. 

"You're okay. We are in your bed, no one else is here with us. You're safe. It was just a hard morning, you had a panic attack, but that's all that happened. You were not harmed. I've got you," he assured, trying to buffer John from the world. 

'Panic attack' seemed like such a normal, causal word for it. John had been in blind terror, and wished there was a word that was not dulled by society's use. Slowly John opened his eyes and allowed himself to slowly filter into alertness safe within Greg's arms. 

"I don't like those. I feel...raw. Tired. Is it a new day?"

Greg was already putting together the words he was going to give Mycroft to get him to back off John. _Raw_ and _tired_ were not at all conducive to a visit with Sherlock, whom John still struggled to tolerate in person, hell, still struggled to tolerate over the phone. 

"No, it's just been a few hours. I don't like you having those either, I wish I knew how to better help you. I'm sorry. You asked for my help and I wasn't able to do much. We are safe, I've got you. I'm sorry to wake you up." 

His fingers swiftly flew over the keys, hating that the situation was as it was. 

_There isn't medication that helps on this level, I don't believe. I am doing my best and am so sorry Sherlock is suffering. I can't promise a visit, unless you think John screaming for mercy and soaking in tears will do Sherlock any good._

_I am well aware that those conditions would not be constructive. You've no need to remind me. Is he currently lucid? I am not asking for more than five minutes._

John snuggled against Greg and shut his eyes again. "Sometimes I can't stop. I try, god, I swear to you, I try. But I slip, and there's nothing I can do. Nothing you can do either. I'll be better next time. I promise."

Greg was instantly ashamed of himself as he read Mycroft's text. He closed his eyes and exhaled slowly, holding John warm and safe to his chest. 

"I know you hate them, I know. It's going to be okay. You've done so well, John. So well." 

He kept John to his chest for a few more minutes before pushing the covers away and reaching for John's medication, tapping out the pills and offering them over. 

"Take these for me? I need to talk to you about something." 

John took the medication and tried to regain his mind. "Why do those take so much energy? I mean, I understand why they are emotionally exhausting, but I'm sore. I suppose I never realized just how strong the link between mind and body are." 

His voice was pitifully small, but he was nearly lucid, or at least, he understood clearly what was going on around him. 

Greg instantly thought of how visceral John's reactions had been, how violently John fought with him in his confusion, how rigid and tense he went in the expectation of pain. 

"You have physical reactions to them," he answered quietly, trailing his fingers through John's hair, wanting to help sooth him and keep him calm. 

He'd given John the heaviest dose of anxiety medication he had available. "You're very ah, animated and tense when they hit you hard. But yeah, mind and body, they get you at the same time. You had a very hard morning, I'm not surprised you don't feel great right now." 

John looked away. He was more than ashamed at his inability to control his own mind. 

"Did I hurt you?" He asked quietly and called to mind the bruises he had caused in the previous episodes. He hated not knowing. John was always so sure that it was Moriarty right in front of him when he struck out, or that Moran's arms were dragging him down, but woke to find that he'd only managed to hurt his only source of protection. 

"I'm sorry for struggling. You can sedate me next time if you want."

Greg instantly shook his head. 

"You didn't hurt me, and you wore yourself down. I wouldn't want to sedate you like that, it terrifies you and when you wake up thinking I'd hurt you...no, it's okay, John. If I thought they had hold of me I'd struggle too. It's okay. You didn't hurt me. You really didn't. It's not your fault when this stuff happens, please don't blame yourself." 

He hugged John closer to him, trying to calm him down. 

As long as he was still loved by Greg, John decided his life would never be impossible. 

"If I ever hurt you, you should tell me and be upset so I don't do it again. I'd rather you get angry than leave me. I know you say you won't, but it still worries me. Next time, I'll try harder. I'll get over this, I promise."

Greg shook his head, pulling John in closer, deeply concerned with the mood he was in. "John, I honestly love you. If you were just trying to hurt me for the sake of it, that'd be one thing, but struggling while you're lost is not something I'm going to leave you for. It's not as though you have a lack of discipline or something. This isn't your fault, it's not. You did much better this time than the last, you stayed with me a lot longer. It's okay, John. I'm not upset. I'm just sad to see you suffering and wish I could help you when you ask for it. Please don't beat yourself up over this."

John's hands flew over his ears for a brief moment and he flinched. 

"I..Uhm.." He folded his hands in his lap and his cheeks tinted with embarrassment. 

"Could we not use that word? D...Discipline?" He looked unsure of his request and had his head down. 

"I mean, nevermind. I'm fine. I did better this time. But all that means is I was teetering on the edge for longer than usual." 

Adrenalin spiked down Greg's chest as John reacted, completely taken aback. It wasn't until John identified the word that Greg understood, feeling like a proper idiot. 

"Yeah, sorry, yeah. That one's off the list, didn't mean..." he cleared his throat and drew John's head closer to his own, pressing feather-soft kisses to John's temple and hairline. 

"Stop putting yourself down. Stop. You are alright. I love you. I'm staying unless you tell me to leave you alone. Please don't tell me to leave you alone. Breathe for a minute, let the medicine work. I'm not disappointed in you. I love you."

John breathed through his minor shock of discomfort at the word and was comforted by Greg's affection. 

"I'm sorry. I know you say not to, but I feel like an ass. I'm afraid of words. Words are just...It's just you making the air vibrate into syllables that in this one language mean one thing which for some reason scares me. I know I'm safe. I'm just being stupid."

Greg shook his head. "Sherlock came apart for nearly an hour over a word just the other day. Not stupid, traumatized. I'll be careful."

John had several words that he wasn't aware that he was afraid of, some which only caused mild discomfort and others that caused full blown panic. "I want to not be afraid of words," he muttered sadly. 

Greg had no idea what it was like to fear words, but could imagine the frustration. "Time, give it time. It will pass. How are you feeling?"  
"Right now? I'm tired, and sad, and I feel stupid and pointless and hopeless. But I'm not hurting or panicking, so better than usual." He fiddled with a piece of fabric on his blanket and kept his head down. 

Greg worried his lip as John spoke. Perhaps helping Sherlock would help give John a sense of purpose.

"Mycroft is asking for your help."

John took a moment to decide how he felt about the request. He decidedly did _not_ want to panic again, but couldn't deny Sherlock something. 

"I'll go, but if I start to panic even a little, I'm leaving. I can't do that again today."


	15. Panic

_"Mycroft is asking for your help."_

_John took a moment to decide how he felt about the request. He decidedly did _not_ want to panic again, but couldn't deny Sherlock something. _

_"I'll go, but if I start to panic even a little, I'm leaving. I can't do that again today."_

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 

Greg hummed and scrubbed a hand over his face. 

"Maybe not today then, he'll understand. It's Mycroft asking, not Sherlock. Mycroft knows you're struggling today."

John sat up and crossed his legs beneath him. "I want to help. I have to. If we're leaving tomorrow, I've got to go see him again. I- Oh, I don't want to leave. But that doesn't matter. I'll go help him because it's what I am supposed to do."

Greg sat up with him. "Okay, John if you're sure. Sherlock has had a setback and I think Mycroft is hopeful seeing you will ease the shock of it."

John got up and out of the warm bed. The room was kept a comfortable temperature, but he always hated the absence of body heat when he left Greg's side. Daring to enter the bathroom that held the hateful shower, John got the minty menthol jelly to help with Sherlock's smell and went for the door. 

"Can I just wear my t-shirt? I don't feel like going long."

Greg felt a sinking sense of dread in his chest. John was clearly not in any condition to help Sherlock. He texted Mycroft.

_We are on our way. I don't think this is well advised._

"Yeah, John, whatever you like. Short visit, you can tell him goodbye for now. Maybe that will help."

John nodded and led the way down the hall. His muscles were stiff and tight, but he utterly refused to use a chair after making this much progress. "I'll be okay. You'll be with me."

Greg kept a hand on the small of John's back, moving with him towards Sherlock's room for what was likely the last time. Much as he hurt for Sherlock, it would be a relief to allow John to focus on his own healing. 

When they reached the door, Greg pressed a kiss to John's temple. "As soon as you need to go, you let me know and that will be it, okay?" 

John squeezed Greg's hand. "Okay."

When John stepped inside, he was already exhausted emotionally. The fight to stay above water when his panic attack hit had drained him and he was left empty.   
"Hey, Sherlock," he said with little cheer in his voice. He didn't sound angry, or reluctant; simply tired.

A shock of adrenalin spiked down Sherlock's gut at the sound of John's exhausted voice. He opened his eyes and looked at John, taking in how drained and exhausted he looked. 

"H-Hello, John," he answered back quietly, looking back up at the ceiling. He'd not expected to see the man again, decidedly not here, and not looking so rough. 

"Are y-you alright?" 

John was far too tired to pretend otherwise, and he plopped down in the chair Mycroft usually occupied. 

"I had a panic attack earlier today and I'm exhausted." He dropped his head down into his hands and brushed his hair back.

The scene made him remember a time over a year ago when John had come back from a rough day at the clinic and an unexpected breakup. Sherlock had been crouched on his chair, pensive as always. John had proceeded to list out all the grievances he had with the world, but had been fairly certain Sherlock wasn't listening. Now, however, he realized that the man was far more attentive than he ever gave credit.

"Those h-hurt. I am sorry," he whispered in response to John's pain, his own shoved hard to the wayside. Perhaps he'd leave John with a good memory of himself. That...that had to be a reasonable thing to strive for, surely. 

Just one memory, one moment John could think back on and perhaps remember without betrayal or fear. 

Sherlock reached out for John without thinking, very softly ghosting his fingers over the crown of John's head. John's hair was often described as blond, but it was honestly more of a wheat hue than anything. His old friend sounded worn down and sad, and Sherlock's mind whispered to him that they sounded so similar at times. Sherlock's body had undergone what John's mind had been subjected to, and they both needed a great deal of time to heal. 

He completely forgot that John didn't even enjoy the sound of his voice, and would likely not appreciate the unrequested touch, especially at a place so vulnerable. 

John kept his head down and tried to keep himself together. He didn't feel the danger of panic pressing, but dissolving into exhausted, hopeless tears seemed like a viable option at the moment. 

When Sherlock touched his hair, he jumped a bit. He hadn't been expecting it, couldn't see it, and thus was a bit surprised. But it wasn't a mean touch, not at all. Moriarty had rarely ran his fingers through John's hair, and it was an action he associated with Greg, and therefore safety. After his initial shock, he relaxed and tried for a smile. 

"They hurt. They hurt in my head. It's like my own brain is my enemy. Like Moriarty took a piece of his own mind and stuck it in there to torment me."

Sherlock nodded, gently sweeping shaking fingers behind John's ear, absently rubbing at his scalp. 

"W-Well, he did do, John. Th-The game now is to search it out and remove it. Which you will. You've removed so m-much of it already. It's just exhausting and frightening to do." 

He closed his eyes, his chest aching as he tried to breathe properly. His damned heart was painful all on its own. Watching John like that squeezed the sensitive organ painfully. 

"G-Greg will keep you safe wh-while you sort it."

John tilted his head to the side in response to the fingers at his scalp. It was no secret that he adored having his hair and head touched, and even from Sherlock, who made him a bit nervous, it was a nice feeling. Suddenly he realized that he was supposed to be the one helping Sherlock, and he stood up. John picked up the chair and walked around to the other side where Mycroft wasn't lying in the way. 

"Greg keeps me safe. That's true. But when it's inside my own brain, there's not much anyone can do."

Sherlock snatched his hand back as John suddenly got up, pulling his fingers to his lips nervously. He so desperately did not want to watch John walk out for the last time in tears or anger. 

"I'm s-sorry," Sherlock breathed, closing his eyes as he curled the fingers at his lips in despair. John was up and moving around the side of the bed with the chair in his hands and Sherlock wanted to sick up. His breathing stilled as John carried on talking, not particularly hearing him as his pulse thundered in his ears. It was all so _fucking unfair_. He'd done his best and he'd failed so horribly, and no matter his intentions he'd had everything violently torn away. He'd even lost the ability to _read_. 

Now John was up and going and he moved his fingers from his lips, sinking his hand into his hair as a sudden, hot tear shot down his face, "I w-won't t-touch you I'm _sorry_." 

John set the chair down on the opposite side and sat down again were he could be closer. 

"No, sorry, I didn't mean to scare you. I'm not leaving, just...I just went to the other side so I didn't have to lean over Mycroft." John chastised himself for not clarifying his actions and made a mental note to. 

"You weren't bothering me. I actually like people playing with my hair. Sounds a bit girly when I say it out loud..." John shrugged. He wasn't about to let pride and masculinity get in the way of one of the few joys and comforts he had in life. 

Sherlock's eyes opened again as he heard John, calm and collected, closer to his side, simply opposite. Sherlock wouldn't be able to reach for him now that he was on the side with his bad arm, but he could still talk to him. He swallowed hard, nodding that he understood, trying to slow himself down. It took a full minute before he tried to speak again, liquid fear still clogging up his airway. 

"'G-Girly' is..." he shuddered hard and swallowed, trying to get his cracking voice under control, "c-construct of...society there's no...n-no gender difference in the n-nerve receptors of the sc-scalp."

John's shoulders shook as he laughed. 

"Of course. Society shouldn't tell me that I can't have my hair played with because I'm supposed to be manly." 

John dropped his head down onto his folded hands which rested on the edge of Sherlock's bed. His eyes had dark circles under them, but he tried to be happy nonetheless.  
Sherlock stared at John as he reacted to him positively. He soon laid his head down, moving his face from Sherlock's view. The fingers of his bad hand itched to sink back down to John's scalp and he swallowed in frustration. Slowly he gathered his breath back. 

"Y-you are exhausted. Sh-should go back and lie down. Tomorrow...you'll go to B-Baker Street?"

John stared up through his light lashes at Sherlock and considered lying. Did Sherlock want him back at Baker Street? 

"I will probably go there eventually, but for now I think I'm going to go home with Greg." 

John suddenly felt like a helpless puppy or child that needed to go home with someone for care. 

"I'll call you and everything. Whatever you want." He reached out one arm and gently draped it over Sherlock's chest, as he often did with Greg when asleep.

Sherlock was making a valiant effort to keep his voice steady, swiftly back to bordering tears. He stared at John, savoring the way his arm weighted over his chest. They would be too far for a visit, and John wouldn't even be back home. Sherlock was losing him completely. 

"It's...d-difficult to h-hear you over a speaker," he confessed, shame nearly choking the life out of him.

"Y-you...I just want you to know that B-Baker Street is yours wh-whenever you want it. I a-asked My to t-take out everything of mine. E-everything. It w-won't...it shouldn't remind you of me. If you don't want it...no, I suppose you don’t want it.” 

He took a moment to let the weight of that settle. 

“Greg has a n-nice flat. You'll be comfortable th-there," he carried on, rambling as his nerves sang. Reality slowly soaked into him. John was going to be _gone_ in the morning and Sherlock was facing an unknown stretch of time in hospital alone, surrounded by medical staff that he did not know. His breathing sharply picked up as fear twisted hard around him. 

"M-Mrs. H-H-Hud-Huds-son w-will...t-tea an-and..." oh _god_ he couldn't do it. He couldn't do it. How the hell was he supposed to manage now, he worried as delirious panic whispered over his heart.

John could _feel_ Sherlock coming a bit unraveled beneath him and sat up so the man could see his face. 

"I'm sorry, I don't mean to say no to Baker Street because of you...I just..." He shook his head. It was stupid, really. 

"It won't be like it was, and I'd rather remember it as happy, not...cold." 

Discomfort was beginning to pull in his chest and John shook it off. Sherlock's distress had a strong affect on him and he gently touched his high cheekbone. 

"I understand about the speakers thing. Really, I do. We'll figure something else out, then." 

Guilt twisted in John when he realized that he wasn't nearly as upset about leaving Sherlock as the man seemed to be about their parting. He wasn't particularly thrilled about it, and would prefer to stay where he was, with his tree and his bird and Sherlock close but separate. 

"I'm going to visit you. I promise. Or you can come visit me once you're able. I..." John wanted to say _something_ to help, but couldn't think straight. 

Sherlock stared at John for a few more panicked seconds before looking away, knowing this was frightening him. He felt the scream trapped right up under his chin, panic so sharp he could scarcely pull in air. John wouldn't visit him in the hospital, and he'd be a long time before he was mobile. Baker Street would sit empty because John now thought of it as a cold place. 

John would never go back to a cold place. 

Moving to Greg's would be exceedingly hard to undo. Once John was well in and established, that would be it. 

Reality came crashing down on him. 

He'd _lost_. 

He'd known it, oh he'd known it, but he'd never been forced to stare the outcome of loss in the face and deal with it. Even his bladder was overly tight as a childlike rush of icy dread overtook him, shrinking his guts. He drew in as deep of a breath as he was able, trying to salvage the situation. 

"'k J-John. We'll...we’ll do th-that-t," he exhaled, trying his damndest to keep his distress from frightening John. 

"Y-You should g-go rest. Th-thank-k you for..coming b-before you...l-leave."

John wanted to run and hide in the hollow of Greg's shoulder right then, but reminded himself that he shouldn't try to hide from all kinds of pain. Some pain, like compassion, wasn't meant to be hidden from. 

"I'm...Sherlock, I'm _sorry_." 

He was so sorry. 

He was drowning in guilt with no shore in sight, each breath he drew sinking him deeper. 

"If I were stronger, if I didn't get afraid, I could help you. But I'm weak and pointless and worthless and I can't even help you. I will get better. I promise you. I'm trying and...and each time I panic it just reminds me of how bad I am failing you and Greg and..." John took a deep breath. Tears stung his eyes and he wiped them away. 

"I just wish, for your sake, that I was stronger. I am sorry I couldn't h-hold out longer and I'm s-so sorry I couldn't recover fast enough to h-help you." 

Sherlock simply broke then, his tenuous hold on composure crumbling to ash. This was how it was going to be then. A panicked, horrible goodbye. No last calm memory, no comfort given to John. He pressed his hand over his eyes, deeply ashamed of himself. he'd reduced John to pleading forgiveness when he'd just been trying to keep himself together long enough to say goodbye. John's last words to him were all the reasons why he wasn't going to carry on with him Sherlock. 

"Please," Sherlock hardly managed to get out, tears streaming down his face, "I was thanking y-you, John. I...p-lease don't be s-sorry. Go w-with G-Greg. I...y-you'll be o-okay with Greg." 

His heart was breaking to bits, sick with how distraught he was to have this be their parting conversation. Why the _hell_ had Mycroft forced this? He wanted to scream, anguish and rage nearly boiling over as he fell apart, fear tearing him to shreds. 

Greg moved rapidly, going to John's side and wrapping an arm around him. 

"Let's go, John, let's just go."

John whimpered and shook his head. "I'm a failure, and I accept this. Just...can I say one last thing? Just listen to me, Sherlock. Listen to me." 

John was struggling to keep control and stood up, eyes focused on Sherlock's. They were a beautiful color, Sherlock's eyes, and John wondered why he never let himself appreciate it before. John cupped the sides of Sherlock's face and watched him closely. 

"I will come back. Right now, things are difficult for me. But I will come back. I won't make you live alone. I wouldn't do that. You know me, and you know how I am. I'm going to come back and nag you to eat and tell you not to keep body parts in your microwave because it's indecent. I'm going to come back and help you. I give you my word as a soldier. I wouldn't leave a wounded comrade behind." 

John bent down and kissed Sherlock's forehead. He lingered there for several seconds. 

"Be strong, okay? I know this hurts. You're stronger than you think."

Sherlock held himself still, only losing his resolve at the very last second, reaching out and catching John's fingers in a complete state of unbridled panic. He forced himself to let go just as soon as he made contact, shaking hard, his pulse raging in his ears. His vision began to tunnel as he watched Greg help John out, shoving his fingers in his mouth to stifle the shattered sounds of panic he could not keep hold of, a learned behavior from his time with Moran. 

"I c- he- I'm sca- he's g-" he didn't have enough air in his lungs to ramble in terrified despair to his brother, turning glassy, bloodshot eyes with his pupils pinpointed in sharp distress. His stomach heaved as he whimpered around the fingers in his mouth, tears streaming fast and hard down his face. 

Mycroft hated it when John left. He always seemed to bring such relief, then snatch it away and leave Sherlock colder for having known warmth. "Shh...it's okay. It's alright, he'll be back, remember?"

Sherlock managed to keep hold of himself for a solid five minutes before he pinched his eyes closed and screamed, the sound shredding out from the deepest recesses of his heart. He was fucking terrified, beyond reason, choking on sickening fear. He raked his nails down the side of his neck, upsetting the bandaging over his self-inflicted wound, digging into his flesh in an effort to ease the overwhelming pain in his chest. 

 

Mycroft jumped when Sherlock screamed and grabbed hold of his hands to keep them off his neck. 

"Sherlock, he'll come back! I promise!

Miller was back in Sherlock's room as his heart started tripping down into abnormal rhythms, the stress overwhelming the delicate chemical balance with too many harsh hormones. Sherlock could not articulate what he needed to, gagging and dissolving down into pure chaos, fear overwhelming his senses. 

"N-" he shook his head, clipping his words down to stuttered syllables between the nauseating mix of both wracking sobs and choked sounds of terror crashed together, "n- he...w..." he shook his head as bitter, sweet copper flooded the back of his throat, dizzy and listing with gripping fear. 

Mycroft kept himself latched to his brother's side even when Miller came in. 

_'Those friends thou hast, their adoptions tried, grapple them unto they soul with hoops of steel.'_

"Sherlock, it's alright! He's coming back! You will see him again."

Miller was fast with a tranquilizer, pushing it swiftly to bring Sherlock's stress down. He kept an eye on the cardiac monitor as Sherlock simply wept. Miller pressed his fingers to Sherlock's pulse and left the comforting to his brother. 

Sherlock cried until his head pounded and he'd run out of tears, laying there boneless and trembling, utterly distraught. By the time he was quieted to nothing more than hitching breaths, and the occasional muffled whimper around the fingers he'd shoved between his teeth, Miller was across the room, watching from a distance. 

Sherlock spoke then, feeling as though he'd been dragged through the streets. 

"Th-that's h-h-how he's...'member m-me l-l-like...I'm...h-hospital w-with st-strange _d-doctors_ and...c-can't move or read or wr-write and J-John will f-f-forg-get me and...oh g-god he's _gone_. I m-m-made him cry ag-agin and n-now..." his expression crumpled and he shouted again despite the heavy sedative, brilliantly afraid of his immediate future.

Mycroft had never been so good with empathy. He could psychoanalyze people and tell them that their relationship issues are stemming from their sister's death, or guess with surprising accuracy the age a woman had been sexually abused based on several factors. But despite knowing exactly how people felt, he hadn't ever felt it. He was aware, yes, often more so than others, but felt nothing for them. 

This was different. His heart was welded to Sherlock's and felt it's pain as if it were his own. It was terrifying, and since it wasn't his pain, he could not logic out of it or disconnect. 

"'Lock, please, I'm here. Let me be enough for now until he gets better."

Sherlock dropped his hand into his hair as he sobbed, "B-But you will _leave m-me_ and I'll be...d-doctors and..." he gagged at the thought of laying alone in a new hospital room, unable to help himself if someone got to him as they'd gotten to John. 

"I'm s-so f-f-fuck-ing sc-scared! I'm _scared!_ Y-You won't b-be there the whole- and wh-when I'm f-f-finally healthy en-enough to l-leave he'll h-h-have got on with...w-with his life and-" all the things he'd lived for were gone. 

They were _gone_. 

Mycroft would slowly pull away from him over time, sinking back into his work, and Sherlock -if he was lucky- would get a Christmas Card from John and Greg, and Jesus Christ he just wanted to _die_. 

Mycroft had nothing to say. Indeed it did look bleak for Sherlock, even if the best case scenario ended up unfolding. 

"I'm sorry. I'm so very sorry this happened to you. You will move past it, though, and you will be with John again." 

Mycroft was certain, at the very least, that they would be neighbors. It just seemed logical. Perhaps they would visit for tea or eat meals together, at the worst, if they both lived. At best, he hoped to have Greg in 221C and the boys back in B where they belonged. But that was a selfish goal. 

The confirmation of his fears did Sherlock in. He tipped his head to his brother's chest, feeling the time ticking away from him like sand in the hour glass. It could easily be measured in minutes, now, the time he had left to be lucid. He was going to go mad in hospital. They would surely keep him restrained, leaving him vulnerable and helpless. 

Moran started to laugh from the corner of the room and Sherlock sobbed against his brother in aching fear, pulling at Mycroft's shirt. 

"I'm af-fraid," he breathed once more, voice cracking as it became clear there was nothing to be done about that.


	16. Parting Words

Greg bundled John up in his arms as soon as they were in the hall. They'd been in Sherlock's room for eight minutes. "Breathe. Breathe, I've got you.

John was in great distress by the time he was out of Sherlock's room, and he adhered himself to Greg the second the door was shut.   
"I just wanted him to be okay," he lamented as the tears began to scald. The damned panic in his mind had stolen away his thoughts as effectively as a solid blow to the head and he hadn't been able to say what he truly wanted. 

"I just wanted him to know that I wasn't leaving him behind."

Greg held John to his chest and kissed the top of his head, "What you said, John, god that was...that was wonderful. He'll be alright, he's just had a blow today and he's run down like you are. He'll remember what you said. You know he will. Just had something scary happened this morning that set him off. Come on, let's go back and lie down." 

He slipped an arm around John and slowly began to move them down the hall, through security and back to John's room, keeping him tight to his side. 

"You are brilliant, John. He just, he found out today that he can't read, and well, you know Sherlock, that was...hard. Your words, I'm sure they will help when he's more calm." 

John leaned heavily on Greg all the way back to the room until they reached the door. As soon as it opened he ran for the bed as best he was able and buried his face down in the pillows. He was exhausted, angry, depressed and so _fucking useless._

"If Sherlock can't read, god, that would depress him even without all the rest! Greg, I don't think I should leave him. He'll go mad. He'll kill himself. I know he will. And then it will be my fault and-and-" John pressed the pillow to his face and his breath hitched heavily. 

Greg settled down beside John and put his hand to the flat of John's back, rubbing gently between his shoulder blades.   
"John. Let's slow down, okay? Sherlock's not going to kill himself. Even if he wanted to he won't have the chance, they won't let him have his hands. He's going to be safe. Slow down, take a few breaths for me. Mycroft won't let him go mad, he'll figure out some way to help. There are audiobooks and podcasts, he's going to be okay. Breathe." 

John shook his head and sat up to reveal a tear stained face. 

"N-no, that won't help. He reads really fast, faster than anyone can talk, and he gets mad because they don't talk fast enough." 

John drew his hand across his face and sniffed. 

"I'm sorry. I'm...I'm a mess. And we're leaving tomorrow and..." John whimpered and held out both arms to Greg. 

Greg had John in his arms, his back against the headboard, John safely against his chest as he tried to soothe him. 

"Molly will help, I bet I can get Molly to help. Mrs. Hudson will go see him, surely. It's going to be okay, John. Maybe Mycroft will read to him. Mycroft is a fast reader. You can text him when Mycroft is there and he can help." 

Greg couldn't even think on Sherlock. The man had been the embodiment of fear, that last touch to John's fingers the most desperate thing he'd ever seen Sherlock do, and he'd watched the man take rounds and walk willingly to a known sadist. 

"We'll send him things, and he'll..Mycroft will be there every moment he can and-" Greg knew how bad it sounded. It felt as though Sherlock was slipping through their fingers, but what more could be done? 

"You told him you'd maybe give it a try again when you're better. He's...you said some beautiful things to him." 

John laughed bitterly. "He'll be in a hospital bed alone, tied down, with doctors, likely in pain and confused. He of so bored at Baker Street, even when I was there. He'll go mental without something to do. He needs someone with him constantly."   
John was comfortable in Greg's arms despite the stress of the day, and his mind began to wander. It was snapped back as if on bungee cord each time and he was confronted anew with how depressed Sherlock would be. 

"I can't even call him without hurting him. You've said he can't read. How is he going to get by, then? How is Sherlock Holmes going to sit in a hospital for god knows how long and rot?"

Greg ran a hand through his hair and sighed. "He's going to have to get over the fear of your voice on the speakers, just like you had to get over your fear of speaking. Unless you're willing to sit in that room with him constantly, we've just got to work with what we have, John. I don't know what else to do. I'm worried for him as well, but he'll make it. You made it. He will make it." 

John was more than depressed at this point. He closed his eyes, not to rest, but to block out the sensory input. 

"I don't want to leave. I hate leaving. I'm scared already, and it isn't even happening. I'm going to panic tomorrow. I'm not going to be able to help Sherlock anymore. I'm going to be worthless again. And then, god, he wants me there with him constantly. I know he does. He gets so upset when I leave, even if I've been there for an hour."

Greg pulled John into his arms and held him close, letting several minutes of silence slide by before he actually spoke. 

"Tomorrow, if you want, we can sedate you and you'll just...wake up in my flat. With me, of course. That way you don't have to feel the trip. It's not too late to change your mind, Baker Street might be more comforting, you know it, are familiar with it. I...I'll be with you, and maybe it won't feel cold that way. As for Sherlock...he..." 

Greg cleared his throat and filled his lungs, slowly letting the air out as he gathered his thoughts, "You two just don't feel the same way about each other any more. It happens in relationships of all kinds, John. It just does. He's...you know, I mean you can't help how you feel, and you've told me many times he's not your friend any longer. He's going to have to accept that. I think, in a way, that he already has. But just like you can't be faulted for not wanting to see him, neither can he for...wanting you with him like before. I know that I wasn't ever on the same level to you as him, but...I need you, you're not useless to me." 

John saw his error as Greg spoke, and gave a small, exasperated sigh. 

"I know you and I weren't as close as Sherlock and I were, but hell, we are now. I never meant to imply that I wouldn't live for you. I never meant that. I never...Jesus, I'm sorry. That's not what I meant at all. You're more important to me than he is, just...don't tell him that. It's just that he's so broken. You're alright without me, and if I walked out the door to go get something, you wouldn't be as messed up about it. I don't mean to drop him as a friend. I know that someday I likely won't fear him at all, and that he will be easy company for me, just like I know someday I'll eat Mrs. Hudson's pie again and enjoy it. I know these things logically. I've a concept of recovery and the future that I didn't have before. But that doesn't make it any easier." 

Greg shook his head. "John, I'm not trying- it doesn't matter who is more important to you, I just wanted to tell you that you're not useless. I need you. It helps me to help you, and you...I mean John, you help me all the time and you don't even know it. Sherlock...I mean yeah, that situation sucks, it's incredibly hard and I don't know what to do or the logistics of it. He's...it will be hard, but it was hard for you and you made it." 

John didn't believe him, not entirely. "I want to be good for you, like you are to me. When I'm lucid, sometimes I worry that you'll get tired of me, or won't hold me once I don't need you too." 

John had plans on how to continue to get the affection he needed if it fell short, and believed that he might even induce his own panic attack in order to be held. Such thoughts were the scared planning a of a hectic, disorganized brain, and only touched him when he was in distress. 

"But if you'll just tell me how you're feeling towards me, and if I'm ever a burden to me, I'll do everything I can to be helpful. I can clean for you, and cook once...oh, god...maybe not." Hot metal, knives and flames seemed to be a terrible combination. He could forget trying to boil anything. "I just don't want to be a burden."

Greg shifted so that he had a better physical hold on John, wrapped more completely around him. It occurred to him then that he'd not really told John what he thought, how he felt towards him. John didn't want Sherlock hurting, but that didn't mean he liked him. 

"I...God, John, how I feel towards you? You're like...you're a part of me. I mean...when you're hurting, I _feel it_ , and when you do something that makes you proud, I feel that too. You're...I mean it might be unhealthy and I'm sorry if it is, but my family...my family walked away from me without looking back. You're...you are my family, John, I'm not sure what capacity yet, it's too early for either of us but...I know I say I love you, but I don't mean it the way you say it to Sherlock. I mean it like, like I can feel when there is distance and..when you're hurting it's something physical for me...and when you push past your fear and overcome something, I can't describe how happy that makes me I just...I sleep better when we are like this than I ever had before, and I- I mean I _love you_ , John. 

Your job when we get home, wherever you choose that to be, is to first learn to eat and drink. That's all I want that requires work on your part. When that changes and you've managed it, we'll talk about that's next."

John was greatly relieved to hear that he wasn't a burden or an obligation. He didn't want to be cared for simply because Greg felt bad for him. To hear that he was loved and valued was beyond reassuring, and he felt himself on the verge of tears once more. 

"Thank you, Greg. I hope you know I love you. I can't breathe right when you're not there. My chest gets tight. I've had less nightmares now that I get to be near someone when I'm sleeping." 

To hear that he had a job, that he was being directed to do a clear cut, simple thing was beautiful. He needed to have a purpose. 

"And I can learn to eat and drink. I know I can. You'll help me and I'll get past this. Hopefully it will go by quicker. I'd like to be able to walk outside sometime without being afraid. I'll be useful to you, I promise." 

Even though he knew full well that Greg wasn't in this for his own benefit, he was still very programmed to please the one he deemed to be in charge. 

Greg smiled at him and nodded his agreement. "I know, John, I know. You're John Watson. 'Useless' isn't in your DNA. You'll get it sorted and I'll help you figure it out. Now, where are we doing all of this? Still my flat?" 

He deeply hoped that John would return with more regularity to his more adult method of speaking, but at the moment John was afraid and he was reverting in fear. It would settle out, surely, once there were home. 

"I want to go to your flat," John stated quietly. Baker Street would hold too many things he didn't want to face. Even if they removed all Sherlock's personal effects, the flat would still remind John of him. John wanted to remember the flat as it was; a place of companionship and cases as downtime between excitement. 

"I want to remember Baker Street for being happy. If I go back now, it will hurt."

Greg nodded quietly. "Okay, John, that's fine. Okay. Then we will go to my flat. I'll give you something before we leave and you'll just wake up there. You'll have your blanket and your clothes and stuff, and they can bring your chair and your bed later. I'll not leave your side, okay? It will be so easy." 

John gave a tiny, childish nod and put his hands near his mouth on Greg's chest. He felt small and helpless, which wasn't a very illogical way for him to feel. 

"I'm scared of this. I don't want to leave. I don't want to be sedated either. I hate that."

Greg ran his fingers through John's hair. "I know you're scared," he whispered, suddenly thinking of Sherlock down the hall. He pinched his eyes closed and forced himself not to think about it. He couldn't help Sherlock. 

"I need you to trust me. My flat is safe. I will keep you safe. I need you to hear that I think it will really, really scare you to be awake for that car ride, John. If you just let me give you medicine to help you sleep, and then let me wake you up at home, I bet we can have a good day tomorrow." 

John knew full well he would not be able to handle a car ride. 

"Can it not be a van? I don't like the vans. I suppose if I'm asleep I won't know." 

He was already working himself up into a good bit of distress, and burrowed his face down into the mattress beside Greg as if trying to hide underneath him. 

"I'm scared of moving and cars and leaving. It's safe here. Why do I have to leave? Why can't Mycroft just let us stay?" 

Greg ran his fingers over the back of John's head in an attempt to soothe him. 

"Moran is dead. His funding has run out. He can't keep Sherlock here either, it's not just you. Trust me, I think it's easier on Mycroft with you both here. But John, you'll feel safe at my flat. More comfortable, too. And remember the birds that nest on my balcony? It will be easier than getting here, at least. You made it just fine on the helicopter, after helping me in a shootout, of all things. You're stronger than you think you are."

John was nearly asleep, but wanted to continue the conversation. "Even if I am stronger than I think, I'm not very strong. I get scared and then I can't think." 

He was muttering sleepily, arms limp and eyes closed. 

"You'll protect me. I'll remember that. You keep me safe. Please don't let them hurt me, or let them take me away while I'm asleep."

Greg tightened his arms around John by way of an answer, and waited quietly for John to fall asleep.

 

\----------------------------

Mycroft continued with his soothing efforts and decided that it might be for the best if Sherlock was kept sedated most of his time at the hospital once his lungs weren't an issue. 

"I know you're afraid, but you need to trust that I would never let anything happen to you. Never. I'll keep you safe and care for you. Just try to let me handle it."

Twisted up in fear that choked his mental process, Sherlock simply nodded, his muscles slowly relaxing. What was to be was to be, and he had no control over it. Mycroft was always with him when he could be, and Sherlock would simply have to practice mental discipline to keep steady and aware, or he'd crack and fall properly into madness. He'd spent most of his adult life alone. Alone was not new. He was a grown man, was he not? 

_Just when I start to wonder, you remind me why Jim was so taken with you. We're going to have a grand time, and oh just think of all the staff! Not your brother's staff, just civilians with debt, working in an NHS hospital. Worked so proper for John. At least you can still speak for now._

"C-can I call you, if-f it g-gets...if it...m-m-may I h-have a d-d-dir-re-c-ct line to y-you that...that...the d-d-ctors-s can't..." his stomach rolled and he shuddered fantastically, the movement rolling down from head to toe. 

Mycroft held Sherlock's arms in with his own to help him feel guarded without having to use any strength. 

"You'll have a direct line to me at all times. The doctors won't be allowed to take it. I'll keep surveillance cameras on too. If you ever need help, I'll be there. I will always be there to protect you when you need it. Anything you need; I'll get it for you." 

Sherlock swallowed hard and slowly began to relax from pure exhaustion in Mycroft's arms. 

"Tomorrow...w-will you...will you j-just come with m-me...u-until I'm...I've s-seen..." his lower lip dipped in and simply went quiet, given over to tears, heartbroken and completely terrified for what the next chapter in his life was about to bring. He closed his eyes and within a few short seconds dropped off hard into a fitful sleep. 

Mycroft whispered to Sherlock as he dropped off and for several minutes after. "Yes. I'll go with you. I'll be with you until you are settled, and you can always call me over when you need to. It won't be so bad."

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Greg waited until John had been down for some time before texting Mycroft. 

_How are we doing this tomorrow? John insists on my flat. I'm going to have Paul sedate him for the move, if we could get it done first thing, that would be ideal. The less time John has to think about it, the better._

_There will be a car ready for John at nine tomorrow morning. They can take you to Baker Street or your flat. I will have cameras installed at yours, if you don't mind._

_Sherlock will be leaving at the same time for the hospital. ICU. He'll be there for at least a week._

Greg ran a hand over his face. A fucking week. God in heaven a _week_. He moved John closer to him in his arms, whispering softly that he loved him. The idea of John going back to anywhere that scared him was intolerable. 

Guilt lanced through him then as it slowly dawned on him that out of selfishness, he'd not particularly pushed John where Sherlock was concerned. John clearly still loved the man. There were moments when John looked at Sherlock as he always had done, just as there were moments when the man trapped inside John's mind finally broke through, all John Watson and very little of the trauma. 

_Cameras are fine, Sherlock of all people deserves whatever help I can give. Let me get John back to eating and drinking and then we can help more. I am so sorry it has panned out like this. John doesn't want to be scared of him._

Mycroft scrubbed his hand over his eyes and wished John's desires equated results. 

_Yes, I know he doesn't want to fear him. I don't see what eating and drinking have to do with his recovery regarding Sherlock._

_I am, by no means, asking you to forsake John's recovery in favor of Sherlock's, but remember that Sherlock is your friend too. Helping John recover with other areas will boost his confidence and help, but please remember that Sherlock is currently worse off than John._

Greg's reply was swift, and one he was glad he was ready with. 

_My plan is to hard focus John on food and water the first few days, while going over his blog and constantly talking to him about Sherlock. I'm going to remind him what they had, all day, every day. I don't know how to help Sherlock in the hospital, and god I don't envy your position. I can't even imagine. Believe me, I've not forgotten him. I honestly don't know how else to help. It hurts him to see John be afraid of him, this is all I can think of to fix that._

The morning was going to be interesting, but it was a massive relief to know around ten he'd be waking John up somewhere warm and safe, a proper home instead of this little room. 

Although Greg's plan didn't offer any direct relief to Sherlock, it would desensitize John to the fear and help in the long run, which Mycroft recognized and approved of. 

_That sounds logical._

_Could he write letters? Something Sherlock can hold? I am hoping his reading will come back, and if not, I can read them to him. He can memorize things in one go if he wants to. If you could, maybe a nice picture of him as well. I'll print it out for him. If you can get him functioning and better at holding out against stress and fear, it will transfer to his work with Sherlock._

Greg buried his face against the crown of John's head, breathing him in for a moment. He was deeply glad that Mycroft was the least emotional man he'd ever met. Listening to Sherlock panic yesterday had been horrific, he couldn't imagine John doing that and having no way of helping him...Greg pulled John in closer and responded, the base of his palms against John's back. 

_Yes. I'll do my best, Mycroft. Please keep me updated on Sherlock's condition._

Sherlock's condition. Mycroft almost laughed. Sherlock was in the worst physical condition he'd seen anyone live through. He was so broken mentally, so hopeless. 

"I'll keep you safe," he muttered and kissed the top of Sherlock's head. Once again, he went through his logical processes with a series of questions and evaluations set in place years ago in addition to ones he created just before this trying period began. 

_I will keep you updated. Remember that any small thing from John could keep Sherlock mentally stable that day._

Greg put his mobile down then, heart heavy, and let himself wrap up around John. He could do something for John. He could fix John. Sherlock made him feel helpless. Not Sherlock himself, but his situation, and he'd constantly gotten upset with John before he'd mentally shifted them about. He couldn't care for both if they could not be in the same room. 

So he held John, and though of home, and allowed himself to drift to sleep. 

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Sherlock came screaming awake hours later, soaked in sweat, the sound shrill and dripping with panic. He instantly grabbed at his ribs in an effort to shield them from the horrific heat of the clamps, tears sliding heavy and fast, not at all bothering to follow a proper queue as they all spilled over his lashes together. He was in so much pain he could not find his voice, attempting to bend his legs up to shield himself. 

Mycroft jolted awake and thought immediately that someone must be torturing Sherlock horrifically. He sat up over him, scanned the room, and relaxed once he found that nobody was actively hurting him. 

"Hey, 'Lock, it's me. It's me. You're safe. You are completely safe with me."

It took Sherlock several seconds to register that his brother was there, meaning he'd been dreaming. He clutched at his ribs, breathing wildly, managing to bite back the urge to scream again. 

"Burns," he managed, "s-still feel-" he clutched at his chest, reminding himself that there had not been any white-hot metal, just his brother and his own mind. 

"Sorry, s-sorry," he managed as his heart slowly began to ease off its frantic pulse. He closed his eyes and set about controlling his breathing again, gasping as he forced his ribs to properly expand.

"It's alright," Mycroft said in relief as Sherlock started to understand it had been a dream. "I'm here. I've been right here the whole time. I'm not going to leave you. Not ever." He put his hand over Sherlock's ribs. 

"I won't let anyone hurt you. Please, brother, remember that. I am not going to let anyone hurt you."

Mycroft's hand splayed over his ribs nearly instantly evaporated the phantom pain. Why his own had not managed it, he didn't know, but he was deeply relieved that it did so. He exhaled in sharp relief and put his hand over Mycroft's in a silent plea for him not to move it away just yet. 

"I kn-know," he whispered, knowing his brother would never knowingly allow someone to hurt him, "an-and I can c-call on the ph-phone when...w-when I am af-fraid and- it...it's...y-you wouldn't l-ll-leave m-me somewhere you did n-n-not trust. I'm...I'm g-going to b-be...f-fine. I'll be...I'll be f-fine," he whispered, choking back the sharp thrill of fear when he remembered what day it was.

Mycroft made note that touching the place of a phantom pain would stop it, and tucked it away in his file. 

"Good, Sherlock. That is all very true. I understand that you don't want to be going, but you'll recover swiftly. I promise." He kept his hand on Sherlock's ribs and put the other one around his shoulders under his neck. 

"You're perfectly safe with me. I'll always keep you safe."

Sherlock closed his eyes as his pounding heart began to slow back down, working diligently to keep himself as lucid as he could, constantly fighting the swift-rising tide of fear at the upcoming move. At the upcoming isolation. 

He'd be doing this alone in just a few hours. 

The thought did nothing to slow the still-constant trail of tears on his face. 

"T-tell...tell m-me I'm s-s-safe...e-ev-ven when y-y-you're n-not with m-me. T-tell-l me I'm g-g-going to b-be safe..when...wh-when I'm a-alone, t-too. Tell me. I'm- I n-n-eed the w-words," he needed to start locking away these things for the next few days, dragging over a flimsy cardboard box in his head and waiting for his brother to talk to him about his time in the hospital just as he once had addressed the underside of Sherlock's frightening childhood bed. 

Mycroft readily obliged. 

"When you are in the hospital, every single person who comes near you will have been cleared by me. You will be safe when you are alone. At the hospital, I will have cameras watching you to make sure you are doing well. You will be safe when you are alone. Just because I am not there with you does not mean I am not protecting you. I will be a quick phone call away. You will be safe alone." 

Sherlock latched to his brother's words, shoving down the fear at being filmed again, this wasn't the lunatic laughing at him in the corner. Moran cackled as he began to push something heavy and grating across the floor, though Sherlock refused to look. 

_Oh, but he can't see me, poppet._

"I-I'll b-be safe...I'll be s-s-safe al-al-" he grit his teeth and forced himself to say the damn word. Was he really so afraid that he could hardly give it voice? " _al-lone_. I- I'll be..." he physically jumped as Moran cracked the whip with force enough to part skin down to the bone, pressing his face to Mycroft's chest in an effort to hide. 

_You're not going to be alone, princess, don't you worry your pretty head over it._

"I'm g-going to b-be f-fine," he sobbed quietly against Mycroft's chest, "I'm s-s-safe, I'll b-be fine." 

To hear Sherlock struggle with the word _alone_ , to hear him breaking down even as he claimed he would be fine, was blindingly painful for Mycroft. 

But what could he say?   
Sherlock had already accepted and repeated all the comforting words he had said. More of the same, then, or was there something he was missing?

"Sherlock, whatever you see, whatever is hurting you, I want you to tell me. Tell me exactly where it is and I'll protect you from it."

Sherlock gestured behind him, over his shoulder, whispering to his brother. "He n-never shuts _up_ ," he tried to explain, "I kn-know he's not here, you h-h-had him killed. He's m-my own mind. I- he s-simply," Moran cracked the whip again, so close Sherlock swore he could feel the air split at his back. 

He jumped hard again, shuddering as he sobbed against his brother's chest, "h-he always taunted me w-with that f-f-fucking whip b-before he'd just _do it already_." 

Sherlock dragged in a halting breath, struggling to do so. "He's n-not real, I kn-know he's not. He's n-not. Ple-please don't make me st-stay awake. I'm s-s-so fuck-king scared r-right now. I j-just w-w-want it over and d-done."

Mycroft wanted to lash out at the air wherever Sherlock saw the abhorrent man and attempt to physically remove the threat from Sherlock's reality, but unfortunately it wouldn't do much good to pull away from Sherlock now. 

"I'm sorry," he spoke quietly, "I'm sorry you see such things. If I could get rid of them, I would. Just tell me if he tries to hurt you, and I'll be there." 

He pulled the blankets up and shielded Sherlock with his arms. "See? He can't get to you."

Sherlock gratefully shifted under the blankets and eased himself further in the protection of his bed. Mycroft made him feel safe, but soon there would be no one to shield him from his own mind. 

"C-can I k-k-keep th-the blanket? It...it h-helps. If th-they won't l-let me...let me keep it c-can it stay at y-your house?" His heart was pounding against his ribs as Moran set off talking to himself, packing his bag of instruments and muttering about bloody moving. 

"I w-w-want to go to sleep. I'm- p-please My I'm t-trying to st-stay calm about it. I..I'm t-trying to l-l-listen to you." 

"You can keep the blanket and anything else you want." Mycroft gently scratched Sherlock's scalp and massaged near the back of his neck. 

"Get some sleep now, alright? Try and get some sleep. I'll call Miller and ask him to give you something for it, but I would prefer if you fell asleep on your own.You can sleep any time you want.”

Sherlock bit down on the insides of his lips, having hoped it was close enough to the time he had to leave to just have it over with. Waking back up in the room with Mycroft would simply mean more dread, but there wasn't anything for it. He closed his eyes and tried to get himself calm enough to attempt sleep, instead listening to his mind supply all the reasons he was going to his painful end. 

_Mycroft won't get to you fast enough. John was tortured in hospital. There are operatives Mycroft hasn't gotten. All of Moran's doctor's are free and looking for work. You tried to kill yourself, you fucking idiot, they won't give you your hands._

Half an hour later his grip was still bloodless in Mycroft's shirt, his breathing swift and still nowhere near sleep. 

"H-how much t-t-time do I h-have?" 

Mycroft checked his watch. "Just over an hour. It won't be long. Just get some sleep, and I'll have Miller give you something to help keep you calm and asleep, if possible. Please, 'Lock, just relax." He sent a text to Miller to ask what the plans were medically. 

_Can we sedate him for this?_

Paul's reply was swift. 

_I'd planned on it, we are transporting him in an ambulance so if his breathing goes, we can still handle it. His lungs have been decent the last few days. I wouldn't want to keep him down long._

Sherlock nodded, he'd been making an effort, but the knowledge of his impending move was crushing and he was constantly having to balance himself to stay atop of it. 

"Y-You'll b-be there f-for a l-little while and I...I'll j-just...I'll..." he pressed his face deeper against his brother's chest, honestly wondering how he was going to manage when he was this bloody frightened and alone.

"I'll b-be fine." 

An ambulance was exactly what Mycroft was planning on as well, and he had one of his secretaries inform the hospital via text. 

"Please, 'Lock, just try to fall asleep. You are going to be fine. I will keep you safe, even when I am not there."

_Good. He's going to be panicking when he wakes. Also, I would prefer to have him sedated soon. He is very distraught._

Sherlock pulled his brother as close as he could, shivering with fear that he could not push away, and again closed his eyes. Moran carried on dragging things about, laughing at him from the corner of the room. 

"My," he whispered, his voice exhausted and strained, "I kn-know it's f-foolish...w-will you...sp-speak to me please. R-recite something or...anything, p-please." 

Paul responded as Sherlock spoke. 

_I can do so now, we can keep him under two to three hours at the most._

_That would be ideal._

Mycroft wasn't quite sure what Sherlock wanted him to recite, or say beyond what he had already stated a thousand times over. A small clip came to mind from a play he had read as a small child, in which Hamlet was lamenting that the actors from a play could show more conviction and emotion about imaginary problems than he could manage for real life. It had spoken to the boy of seven, who had no idea why everyone else cared so much while he stayed, for the most part, rather flatlined. Perhaps it wasn't the most uplifting thing to recite, but Mycroft was exhausted, absent minded and knew Sherlock would be sedated soon. 

"O, what a rogue and peasant slave am I. Is it not monstrous that this player here, but in a fiction, in a dream of passion could force his soul so to his own conceit, that from her working all his visage wann'd, tears in his eyes, distraction in's aspect, a broken voice, and his whole function suiting with forms to his conceit? And all for nothing. For Hecuba! What's Hecuba to him or he to Hecuba that he should weep for her? What would he do, had he the motive and cue for passion that I have?" 

Mycroft stopped then, eyes closed, head dipped down. "Why, he would drown the stage with tears."

Paul came in quietly as Mycroft was gently reciting for Sherlock. Miller was at his back, there to ensure that Sherlock physically handled the sedation well. He was already on oxygen, supplemental but still hopefully sufficient. The quiet sound of the door made Sherlock flex his grip harder on his brother's shirt, though he otherwise did not move. Paul slipped the syringe into one of Sherlock's drip lines and slowly began to push the barbiturate. 

Sherlock's body immediately began to relax, racing heart slowing and breathing deepening to something more acceptable. He whimpered quietly, tugging once more on his brother. 

"Ple-s stay," he slurred just as the sedative dragged him down hard, fingers losing their grip on Mycroft's shirt, lines of tension in his face easing. 

Miller stepped forward then as Paul moved out of the way. He eased Sherlock better to his side and dropped the head of the bed down, tossing the pillow to the floor and moving Sherlock's head in a way that would help him protect his own airway. He lifted an eyelid and checked his pupil before speaking at a normal volume. 

"He's down. Looks good." 

Mycroft hated the feeling of Sherlock's muscles going limp. It was too close to death, and it made the protective older brother latch onto Sherlock's warmth, breathing and heartbeat that told him he was alive.

With a quiet, dejected sigh, Mycroft released Sherlock and stood up beside the bed. 

"The ambulance should be here soon."

Miller nodded, "It's been here for about half an hour, wanted them standing by. I'm going to keep him in this bed until he's arrived. As you requested, he's in a corner room and there will be little to no foot traffic in that area. They will fill the adjoining rooms only in a worst-case scenario. We can move whenever you are ready. I understand Paul is going to travel with Greg and John to facilitate their transition." 

"Yes, and I am going to stay with him for today, and return to work tomorrow." Mycroft stepped away from Sherlock's bed and went to the door. 

"Let's go now, then. I'll inform Greg that it is time to leave."

It took fifteen minutes for Miller and the medical staff to get Sherlock ready for transport. He was down hard, and his vitals holding. There were no complications getting him loaded into the ambulance, which waited, idling, for Mycroft to join them. 

 

Paul was already in Greg and John's room, helping Greg gather the last of John's effects that needed to go right then, including his music and blanket, along with the calendar and Greg's drawing. Greg had already given John his pills, and Miller had earlier come in and capped off the NG tube in his nose and the IV port. Greg had the large red medical bag packed by the door, and his backpack ready to go. He sat, holding John in his chair, speaking softly to him as he snugged the blanket tighter around John's shoulders. 

"Later tonight we can curl up on the sofa and watch telly properly. It will be so nice. Paul will help you sleep, and when you wake up I'll be right there. You're going to be safe. It's going to be alright."

John was terrified. He kept himself still and calm despite it, and nodded against Greg's chest. "I don't want to go," he whispered as squeezed his eyes shut. He did not want to be sedated and moved somewhere unfamiliar. 

His opinion on sedation had gone in cycles. First, he was terrified that retribution would follow it when he woke. Then, he relished it as a repose from the pain and terror. Now, after having been sedated twice when he believed himself about to be hurt, and in general preferring to be in control, he was far more hesitant. 

"I don't like this. I don't want to."

Greg ran his fingers through John's hair as Paul walked over. "John. I know this is very scary, I know it is. I'm going to give you something to put you to sleep, and Greg will be the only person who touches you. No one will help move you, just Greg. You've been to his flat, you know where you are going. This will be the easiest way to get you there with as little stress as possible." 

Greg nuzzled down to John's head and whispered against his ear. 

"Trust me, John. Don't think, just trust me and let me take care of all this. Just trust me, that's all you need to do." 

John wanted to let go and trust Greg more than anything. He reached up and took hold of Greg's face, eyes wide and pleading. 

"You've got to promise to protect me," he said gravely. John was well aware of the rules of combat. If you're unconscious with people who want to kill you; you are dead. He knew the importance of staying aware in a fight. To allow himself to be unconscious and helpless during a time that he believe himself particularly vulnerable went against everything in him. 

"You've got to promise. Don't let them take me away from you while I can't fight, or cut me, or anything else."

Greg returned the look with just as much intensity as John gave him. "I swear it, John. I'm going to protect you. No one is going to take you away from me. I'm going to keep you safe. I will protect you. I promise." 

Paul watched as Greg reached up and wrapped a hand around John's wrist, moving his palm from the side of Greg's face, down to his lips. He pressed a slow, chaste kiss to the center of John's hand and looked at him again. 

"Trust me. Let go and trust me."

John's lower lip quivered and he looked like a man being asked to walk to his own execution. He reached out and extended his arm to Paul for the sedation, though his whole body leaned and cowered away. "You've g-got to promise me," he repeated and tears filled his eyes. 

"They c-can hurt me and I-I can't f-fight and I-I-I'm _scared_!"

Greg's heart twisted in the face of John's fear. He allowed John to hold on to him however he wanted, keeping eye-contact and speaking as Paul deftly slid the needle into John's port without touching John's skin with his own fingers. 

"I promise you, John. No one can hurt you, they'd have to get through me and that will not happen. It will not happen. I promise I will keep you safe. I promise, John. I promise." 

He rocked John as Paul stepped back, capping the needle and pitching it. 

"I have you John, I know you're scared. I promise I have you."

As soon as he felt the slow slide of darkness creeping up on him, John began to deteriorate. He held Greg's face close to his own and stammered out a few last, panicked pleas. 

"Don't let them hurt me, please, you can't let them hurt me. You've got to _promise_. They can -oh, god- they can do anything they w-want and I-I can't-" John was deeply afraid of waking up on a cold table, Greg nowhere to be seen. 

"Stay w-with me. I love you. Don't...don't leave me..." He began to relax in small increments, muscles bleeding energy away and eyes sliding shut.

Greg did not move for several minutes after John stopped talking and became dead weight in his arms. He slowly leaned back, clearing his throat, eyes burning and lashes heavy as he looked to Paul and nodded. 

"We need to move fast. You can't be there when John wakes up. It's got to just be me." 

Paul understood, giving Greg a hand up with John limp in his arms. Greg shifted the unconscious man and ensured the blanket would keep him snug and bundled tight, cocooning him in it. Two men came for the bags, and they were soon out to a waiting car. Greg never allowed anyone to come close enough to physically touch John, even though he knew none of them were a threat. 

If John woke, he'd find himself safe and only in Greg's care. 

It was odd to watch London zipping by after so long with only he and John. It was easy to forget that life carried on. Construction that Greg recognized was nearly complete, or gone altogether. He rest his head against the window, holding John like a sleeping child cradled against his chest. His flat was half an hour away from Mycroft's compound and much to his surprise, Greg found himself a bit carsick when they finally arrived. 

Paul took the bags and helped Greg upstairs. Evidence of Mycroft's men was everywhere. Someone had been in to clean, the windows open and a pleasant breeze gently rolling through. There was already a tea trolley waiting, and it honestly looked better than the entire time Greg had lived there. He carried John to the sofa and sat down with him still in his arms. 

Paul quietly began setting up Greg's bedroom, hanging John's fluids and the hook for his feedings. He set John's collection of medication out on the dresser and ensured Greg had access to the rather extensive trauma bag in case he ever needed it. Miller had stocked it very well. When he went back into the sitting room, Paul set John's radio on the coffee table and turned on his music before vanishing once again, returning with John's pillow from where he and Greg had been staying, in addition to some from Greg's room. 

"Here," he whispered, building up a comfortable area around them so that Greg could get a bit of rest. 

"There are pre-drawn syringes of sedative in the bedroom if it comes to that. Not any sooner than two hours from now. I swapped out his pills. Four of his tablets is now one blue one. He can have two of those for the most debilitating times. Start with that before you go for the syringes. Text me if you give him IV sedation, please." 

Greg thanked him, hardly believing he was sitting in his flat with a lapful of John Watson. The day was sunny, and his sitting room well lit and airy. Hopefully it wouldn't be too frightening for John when he woke. Paul bid them goodbye and saw himself out of the flat. 

Usually, John tried his best to stay unconscious when sedated. He fought it in the beginning, to avoid the pain of retribution associated with going to sleep, then attempted to stay asleep to delay the punishment.

Today, however, he fought hard against it. The second his mind began to stir, grasp at the light of awareness, he fought. He stirred slightly, eyes moving lazily under heavily lids. It took a while for him to remember what had happened, but when he did, he flinched heavily and began to shift around. Before he opened his eyes, he evaluated himself. He wasn't in pain, or wet, or tied to anything. His heart began to canter ahead despite his physical soundness and he whimpered, eyes shut to avoid the punishment he would receive when he opened them, the one he would surely get for sleeping. 

Despite his closed eyes, he struggled to wake up. He shifted his hands and found that there was a corner of blanket just next to his left. John snatched it and held it tightly. Wherever he was, he was allowed his blanket.

Greg watched John struggling with the medication and held quiet in case John managed to drift back down to sleep. It had been a solid hour since they'd arrived in Greg's flat, and the room was nothing but brighter. 

"Hey John," he whispered softly, a touch of a smile on his lips to curve his voice warmer, lighter. "You've been asleep about two hours. We're home. It's just you and I, no one else is here. You can sleep a bit more if you like. You're safe, and I love you." 

John's eyes flew open at Greg's voice, fully alert but a bit drowsy. 

"Greg," he gasped, terror and confusion on his face. 

He looked around and saw things that should be calming and comfortable; a sofa, Telly, tea cart, coffee table and lamps. They were unsettling for their unfamiliarity. 

"I- Where? I was...god, I don't-" he wasn't making sense of things, and twisted in Greg's grip to adhere more fully to his source of protection. His legs wrapped around Greg's waist and he clutched his shirt. If someone was going to come try and take him away, they would have to pry him off Greg first.

Greg sank his fingers in John's hair, cradling the back of his head with his palm, lightly scratching at John's scalp. The other arm wrapped tight around John's back.   
"We moved from your old room to my flat. There are no other people here but you and I. No guards, no doctors, just you and I. It's new, and that's scary, but I'm right here and I have you. Breathe, just give yourself some time, that medicine is still in your system." 

John clutched Greg in the position of a frightened child and processed what was being said. Everything was unfamiliar, even though he had seen it all before. John remembered slipping under, remembered there was going to be people near him, and his grip strengthened. 

"I don't want it," he exclaimed and began to shake. "I'm not safe. Why are we here? We were safe there!"

Greg shook his head and held John to him. "Breathe, John. Breathe.You are safe. I have you. Breathe. You'll remember why we are here, just calm down." 

He gently rubbed John's back, starting to rock John lightly, "I promise we are safe. I have you, remember? You're safe with me, right?"

"We were safe!" John cried and used every ounce of his strength to adhere to Greg. "Why did we leave?! I don't know i-if I'm s-safe n-now and we-" John's stomach churned and he fell silent.

Greg's heart sank. He filled his lungs slow and deep, forcing himself to keep a grip. Of course this was going to be scary for him, he'd known that from the start. 

"Okay, come with me love, I know you're scared. Hold on to me. I'm just going to show you where you are. You know this place." 

He did not wait for John to respond, simply standing with him, shifting so that he had an arm under John's knees, letting John hold on to his neck as Greg supported him with his other arm slung across his back. 

"Don't hide your face, John. Look around, remember I promised your birds? They are there, I checked. Got a nest if you can believe it. You can watch them when you're ready. Come on then, let's go look. You know my flat, been here loads of times. Pints and laughs, you're safe here." 

He walked John slowly around the sitting room first, before facing back to the sofa so that John could see where they'd started from. He then turned a hard right, taking John down the short hall that led to the bedroom. 

"All your medicine is here, we have everything we need." 

John had his face pressed down on Greg's shoulder and his ankles crossed behind him. 

"I don't like it," John whined, and refused to look up for several seconds. When he finally did, he saw the sofa, and could remember easily laughing and watching Telly with a pint in his hand. He'd not seen much of Greg's bedroom, but it didn't appear threatening.

Then again, he wasn't particularly worried that the furniture would bite him. 

"Are we safe?" He asked and held on for dear life despite Greg's support

Greg looked down at John and gave him an easy smile. "'Course we're safe. Just as safe as we were before. Now, where do you want to be? Sofa okay?" 

He was doing his best to appear calm, wanting John feeling safe and at ease. Perhaps if he saw how relaxed Greg was, he would settle himself.

John was exhausted, but continued to hold on. "We aren't safe! We AREN'T!" John buried his face in Greg's neck and began to sob violently. 

"I don't understand! W-We were safe! We were s-safe! Why d-did we leave?"

Greg walked over to his bed, which he hadn't seen in months, and set John down on it. He grabbed the new bottle of pills and tipped out two of the blue ones, holding them up to John.

"I need you to take these."

He'd foolishly been optimistic that he'd be able to help John be calm in this transition.

John refused to let go of Greg when he was placed on the bed, and clung on despite Greg's attempts to set him down. "No! Please, no. Don't put me down." He took the pills quickly and buried his face back into Greg's neck. 

Greg pulled John to his chest and held him close, rocking him gently. "Okay John, ok. Try to relax, you're safe."

John took several minutes to regain his calm, though he still didn't trust his surroundings. "Why did we leave? We were safe."

Greg nuzzled the side of John's head, spreading gently. "Moriarty and Moran are dead, Mycroft lost his funding. You and Sherlock had to move."

The explanation sounded fairly reasonable, but John still felt unsettled by the move. "I'm _scared_ ," he whined. 

Greg nodded, carding fingers along John's scalp. "I know you are, I wish I could help you feel better. I promise we are safe.

It was nearly a half hour before John released his death grip on Greg in favor of a lighter, more relaxed one. He muttered to himself that he was safe, but the change still frightened him. 

"I don't like this. I have to figure everything out again."

Greg took John's hand. "I'll help you, you're not alone. No more alone. I have you, if you can trust me. This is my home. It's your home now too. We are safe here. I'm sorry you don't like it. We can still go to Baker Street if you want."

John looked around at the walls as if they would fall in on him suddenly. The room seemed to vibrate with danger, and John couldn't settle. In the room at the facility, once John was used to it, he had things to occupy him. Now he poured all his focus into not being alarmed by the change. 

"I trust you, but I don't like this."

Greg nodded and shifted John in his arms. "Well...can I show you the birds? You loved the bird back there, and I got a bit excited watching them nest, wanting to show you, so uh, yeah it's maybe a bit daft but I want you to see. It's very nice out today, and the balcony is warm and has some comfortable chairs. Can we?"

John was deeply afraid of moving around, and he didn't want to go outside. He didn't want to move, or breathe, or think. But if Greg was suggesting it, it couldn't be too bad. 

"Alright, but please don't let go. I don't want to be left here."

Greg stood back up with John, hoping John's anti-anxiety medication would soon help him. 

"Stopping off at the kitchen, nothing bad," he said as he moved them out into the hall, cutting left and only going deep enough into the kitchen to pop open the icebox and silently thank Mycroft for having beer already there. He grabbed a bottle and swiftly moved them back to the sitting room. The main door to the balcony was just beside the sofa. He pulled it open, washing them in warm daylight and a cooler breeze. 

"They are just there in the flower box. We'll sit over here and not bother them," he whispered, going to a little glider bench with a soft cushion across the seat. He settled down with John in his lap and set the beer to his side, waiting until John was a bit adjusted before opening it. 

John was deeply afraid of everything that he hadn't become accustomed to. He was afraid of the ice, of the sink, of the open doors and the drawers that might have frightening things in them. It wasn't until the medication began to drape a heavy blanket over his mind that he calmed and accepted that he wouldn't get anywhere with worrying. 

Being outside was a mixture of relaxing and unsettling. He caught sight of the birds and a small smile touched him, but it felt very exposed to be outside without the big white walls of the facility around him. 

When John began to relax, even though it was only slightly, Greg reached over and cracked the top off the beer, breathing deep at the smell of it and groaning happily as he tipped it to his lips, swallowing with a hiss of pleasure. 

"Jesus, needed that," he said mostly to himself, holding on to John. 

"We can go in and watch a movie, or you can have a kip on the sofa, your pillow is there if you want it. Whatever you like, John, we're home. It will settle soon, it will. This is good, John, it's a really good thing." 

John's thoughts began to function as unspun wool. He couldn't think, and therefore could not worry, on one topic for very long. He had his eyes on the birds, following each one until it flitted away, then looking to the other. They were happy, lively little creatures, oblivious to the problems of those around them in a blissful sort of way. 

"Whatever you want," John muttered and curled into a smaller ball on Greg's lap.

Greg set his beer down after another pull at the welcome drink. 

"Oh, John," he whispered sadly, gently touching the side of John's face. "Talk to me. I...I know this is hard. What can I do to help you? Is it too much out here? We can go inside. I don't mean to upset you. Bit rubbish at all of this. I was hoping to make this so much easier on you. Please talk to me." 

He drew out his mobile and sent a swift text to Mycroft. 

_We managed to get here just fine. John's frightened but we are managing it. All my thanks for sending in a cleaning crew and stocking the kitchen. Let me know if there is anything I can do to help Sherlock._

John shook his head. "You aren't rubbish. I shouldn't be scared. I shouldn't be reacting like this. I'm just...Are you sure we're safe? Are you certain?"

Greg offered John his hand while they were still sitting wrapped up together. 

"Will you walk with me? I know you took medicine, but I'll help you. I promise we are safe. Maybe if you walk around the flat with me it will feel better. Come on, I'll put on some music and we can go check it out. Then we will sit down and watch dumb telly, I'm determined to get a laugh out of you today." 

John took Greg's hand, but to stand up would mean he wouldn't be held any more. He lingered in Greg's arms for another few minutes, then stood slowly, keeping himself close to Greg. The progress he had made, at the facility, where he gained the confidence to walk out of the room and ask for things, shut the door and speak with Paul, and lead the way to Sherlock's room, wasn't completely gone, but suppressed by his nerves. 

"Okay. We can walk. But don't let go of me."

Greg slowly led John back inside, one hand cupping John's elbow, the other slung across his back, wrapped around his hip. He kept their sides flushed together, but did want to very rapidly teach John that he was safe in his home, and that movement was alright and encouraged. 

"Anywhere you want, you lead. Oh, well first I should show you the lav." John needed to know where the toilet was, and Greg had never been happier to have a lav where the toilet and shower were separated with a door. 

John held on to Greg and took hesitant, shuffling steps as if his legs weren't as strong as they really were, and had not yet healed. He looked at the lav, then back to Greg. 

"I know. I...I'm scared. I'm scared." 

John shrank down and held onto Greg's arm. 

"Can we go sit down? I'm...my head hurts. It hurts. No, not my head, I'm just nervous. I'm scared. This isn't...I was safe there, and I don't know if I'm safe now. Please help me. I can't think. I can't think."

John gave a small whimper and turned to Greg. "I'm nervous and I can't think."

Greg eased down and nuzzled against John's face. "Let's go watch telly, yeah? It always helps. You'll feel better. Come on, I've got you and you're safe." 

John pulled Greg over to the couch and sat down next to him. Slowly he leaned over and curled up on Greg's lap, his head on the man's knee like an injured pup. 

"Tell me I'll get used to this. Please. Tell me I'll be happy."

Greg clicked on the telly as he sank his fingers in John's hair. He scrolled until he found something comical and easy to follow, stroking John's head gently.   
"You will be happy, John. I honestly think you'll be happier than you ever were since getting back. You will get used to it and you will thrive. I promise you. Here," he fanned John's blanket out over the man, up to his chin, "you're alright, John. I love you, you're alright." 

John held the blanket and have Greg a small smile. "You know a lot of things. Like that having the corner near my hand would help me when I woke up, and that the blanket helps me calm, and which song helps when, and what sort of telly I like. You're good to me. I'd like to learn how to help you. Sherlock makes lists in his brain and has files and stuff. I can try a list. You like it when I smile and laugh, when I talk like an adult and don't use blanket words, and when I eat and drink, or act correctly. You like it when we're peaceful. I want to do those things for you."

Greg shifted after nearly an hour of petting John's head and watching mindless telly, simply getting more comfortable. It was good to be home, odd, but good. 

"I like having you here. Feels more like home. You're quite cozy," he said warmly, tugging lightly at John's blanket to punctuate. 

If it made Greg happy to be at home, then John wouldn't spoil it for him. He gave a tense nod and held his blanket around his chest, as if he wouldn't feel a whip or crowbar through it. 

"Okay. If you're happy. I'm glad. I like it when you're happy." The walls seemed to threaten him, and he couldn't quite relax. 

Greg could tell that John was losing his optimism. "Hey," he said gently, sweeping his hand through John's hair again. "if you're afraid and you want me to hold you, I'm all yours. Want to come up here with me, or we can lay in bed and watch telly under the blankets." 

He so deeply wanted to help John feel safe and happy. "It's okay to ask for what you want or need, John. I'm right here with you, love. Want to get in bed?"

John gave a tiny nod and a childish sound of confirmation. He sat up and wrapped his arms around Greg's neck so he could duck his head down and pretend like nothing bad had ever happened. A small part of him told him that he should get up, walk around, look at the house and just be _normal_ , but he was far too stressed for that. 

Greg hugged him close, whispering against the side of John's head. "That's fine, John. That's all fine. It's new. It's okay if you're scared, I won't be upset with you for being scared. I'm going to lift you, ok? Hold on to your blanket, we are going to go lie down in my room and watch something about space." He stood up slowly, turning back to grab their pillows with one hand, thankful that the walk from sofa to bedroom was not far. He tossed the pillows to the headboard and awkwardly reached down and turned down the covers, sliding down into the bed with John in his arms. 

"Get how you like, I've got you," he offered, leaving his arms mostly open so John could shift how he wanted. He'd hook John up for a feeding and fluids in just a moment. 

John shifted in Greg's arms so he could lie on his side, one arm draped over his chest, and his legs tangled up with Greg's. "I'll try and get used to this," he muttered and held a fistful of his shirt. "Thank you for this. I'm okay. I'm safe here. I know that. It's just...new."

John couldn't explain why it was terrifying to be someplace new, even if he had been there dozens of times before. It was frightening to be in a place he had not gotten used to after his torment, and he tried to remember happy times he had enjoyed there. There were snatches of laughing with a beer, or shouting at the Telly, but it didn't seem to fit with the current position he was in, being cared for and coddled like a child.

Greg hushed him gently.

"There is a difference between knowing you are safe, and _feeling_ safe. It will come. You're doing wonderfully. Paul gave us new medicine to work with so we have a lot of ways to help manage your stress, and there won't be random calls to go anywhere when you're not feeling up to it. We can relax and do this at your pace, and it's going to be so much better. You'll see. Rest a minute, and then we've got to get you hooked up." 

He moved his hand to grab the remote, clicking on the telly and turning to the DVD player which already had an entire season of space programs. 

"You've missed a season, so we've lots of new things to watch."

John blinked blearily and turned his attention to the screen. Logically, he could see this being a very good, peaceful life. It would be easy to live with Greg and stay safe. However, there were considerations that floated in his mind. He was worried about Sherlock, his own safety, and whether or not this sort of life would be sustainable for Greg. He was a bit too medicated to worry about them strongly, and instead focused on the growing pocket of warmth around himself and Greg. 

"I'm glad we can watch these things. I enjoy it. Is there anything you want to do today?"

Greg reached back behind him slowly and brought the connecting tube forward, quietly hooking up a feed for John before doing the same with the saline a minute later. He held John's hand over his chest and hummed. 

"This, mostly. Just lounging about at home with you. Mycroft mentioned that, if you're up to it, maybe writing to him or sending him...something, might help Sherlock. If you've got that in you at some point, we can do that." 

John nodded and his hair ruffled against Greg's chest. 

"Yeah, I can do that. Shouldn't be too hard." 

He gave a small smile and let his eyes close half way. He watched the tube and saline through his lashes and wondered when his quality of life would improve.

Greg bundled John closer against him as he got himself comfortable. "Let's just have a lie down for a few hours, and see how you feel after some proper rest. There isn't a rush, okay? No rush." 

John ended up dropping off to sleep on Greg, though he was still anxious about his new surroundings. The medicine kept his dreams away for the most part, and he was able to obtain some peace.

 

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Miller helped move Sherlock up to his new room, helping transfer Sherlock over from his old bed to the one in ICU. Ortho, neurology, and cardiology all came to consult while Sherlock was down hard. It was decided that he could go without the halo around his arm at least, leaving just the plates and two pins to be adjusted in place. His legs had to remain as they were, but at least he'd have his arm to some extent. Mycroft had been asked to remain out of the room while everyone fed in and out, ortho removing most of the halo right there, while cardiology got him tethered to their monitors and neurology consulted with Sherlock's existing medical team. 

By the time he was settled, Sherlock was restrained as they'd discussed, and desperately combating the sedative. Only Miller remained in the room when Mycroft was brought back in. 

"He'll be up soon. That arm is in a half-cast now, but the pins still need to be seen to. He has a bit of mobility at least, and we can start getting him to exercise that hand, see if it will function at all." 

Mycroft slowly slid one hip onto Sherlock's bed and laid his head down next to him. 

"Thank you, Miller. Thank you very much. I'm hoping his vision will come back, and he can start with a tablet or books. I don't want to push it just yet though, not while he's still recovering." 

Mycroft was quiet then, and tried to think of how he would handle leaving Sherlock that night. 

Sherlock managed to snap awake abruptly, breaking through the sedation with the force of one putting their entire weight to a door that finally gave, dragging in a sharp breath and opening his eyes. Miller was still in the room, leaned back against the wall with his arms casually in the corner, his brother right beside him on the bed. Knifing panic sliced across his chest as his eyes took in the room with rapid proficiency despite the sedation. 

"I'm okay," he whispered to himself, tears blurring his vision as fear squeezed his heart. 

The bed felt wrong and the blankets felt wrong and the vague sense of smell he was slowly regaining reminded him with every breath that he'd been moved. He was no longer under the sort of protection Mycroft's compound had provided. He lost hold of a panicked sound of fear, staring up at the ceiling. 

Twelve. Of course there would be twelve. 

His eyes cut back to the room, sweeping over the interior in search of Moran. "I'm-m..I'm f-f-fine," he breathed, struggling to move air in and out of his lungs as terror blanketed his senses. 

Mycroft looked up and decided something would need to be put on the ceiling to remind Sherlock that he was safe. For now, all he could do was offer words and his own presence. 

"'Lock, it's me. I'm here. I'm right here. You are safe. Moran and Moriarty are both dead, and we've kept close tabs on any other players in their game. Everyone has scattered. They aren't organizing. You are safe here." 

Sherlock pinched his eyes closed, breathing as though he'd just finished a marathon. He shifted, trying to cover his face, reminded abruptly that he was restrained. He knew he would be, but oh god it did not help. 

"J-John..is h-he...d-did he g-get home?" But no, that was wrong, John wasn't ever going to go home. 

"I m-m-mean Greg's...th-their f-flat...did he...is h-he safe?" 

His mind cut to Baker Street, plucking John out and all the warmth with him, like dragging the fire from the hearth, settling him in Greg's home as Baker Street crumbled to ash. His breathing hitched terribly, leaving Sherlock swirling in a haze of overwhelming fear and loss. 

Miller looked up to see Paul motioning him from the hallway, leaving Mycroft to his brother as he walked out to fill the man in. 

Mycroft nodded and swept Sherlock's hair back from his face. "I'm here for you. John is safe and with Greg. He is being taken care of wonderfully, as you will be. You're safe. What I want to do is put something up on the ceiling to remind you of where you are. I'd like you to choose. Maybe a poster?" 

If he chose, then it might not remind him of how safe he was. If Sherlock decided himself, then he would remember the conversation, and hopefully where he was.

John was gone. 

Sherlock allowed that reality to slide over him, breathing and accepting it for what it was. He'd known. He'd pushed the mobile into Mycroft's hand and had his men take Moran out. John was safe, but he was gone. He would likely never share a roof with the man again. He struggled to hold back tears, so afraid of slipping and being unable to protect himself further, if he started crying about John, he'd likely start screaming about the building of doctors, and he decidedly did not want to start that. 

"S-some-" his words cut off as a sob broke it's way through his tightly clutched defenses, "something with stars," he managed as tears began to track down the side of his face. 

John was _gone._

"P-Promise me h-h-he's s-safe," he breathed as his voice cracked, fear taking a backseat to how deeply grieved he was. 

Mycroft was desperately throwing up walls to keep Sherlock's grief from affecting him. Generally, he avoided such walls, as they prevented him from viewing with an unbiased eye all the evidence, but right now he needed to be strong. 

"Yes, Sherlock. He is safe. I'll get you something with stars. I promise." Mycroft texted one of his secretaries to get some sort of space poster. 

Sherlock nodded and closed his eyes against everything. He lay there as the chemical signals for fear and loss churned his brain to useless scattered images, only there to prove he had reason for his terror and reason for his grief. He chose not to move his arms, pretending that he could at any time, just as he'd done on Moran's table when left alone. 

When left alone. 

His eyes flew back open and he made himself take in the room, trying to focus on small detail that would remind him that his brother had promised it was safe when he fell into panic. His heart slammed itself against his chest wall painfully and he grit his teeth, moving air between them as he desperately fought the twisting coil of fear wrapping around his spine. 

He forced himself to speak, attempting for something, anything normal, teeth chattering now as the fear made him physically tremble. 

"Th-thank-k you f-f-for taking c-c-are of him still. I kn-know it's m-m-much to burd-den you with-th," Christ he could smell the mix of rust and blood. He shivered hard even as he lay there trembling on his back. Perhaps he could manage to be left with a hand loose if he played his cards right.

Mycroft shut his eyes for a moment. "I'm not troubled by it. Greg takes care of him mostly. He keeps him safe for the most part, and I watch over them both." 

Mycroft kissed the top of Sherlock's head softly and lingered there for several seconds. 

"We'll get you that poster before nightfall, alright? You'll have something to look at to keep you centered."

Mycroft was beginning to dread leaving Sherlock. He didn't know how he was going to force himself to walk out of the room, one foot in front of the other, knowing full well he was devastating his brother. But he needed to work. He needed to keep an income, and needed to be able to have Sherlock and John monitored. 

Sherlock closed his eyes again, already feeling his brother mentally drawing away. He'd not particularly realized how emotionally close they'd become since he was rescued, but he felt the loss of it acutely. He nearly asked his brother why he was withdrawing, but figured the forward question would not be welcome nor carry any sort of answer Sherlock wanted to hear. Mycroft was bolstering against him, and soon he'd walk out, and Sherlock would taste alone more purely than he'd ever done before. 

Mycroft let his lips linger at Sherlock's forehead and his eyes closed. "I'm here for you, 'Lock. I'm right here for you. If you need me, I'm going to come for you. If you get to lonely, I'll come. I need to go back to work so I can keep you and John safe."

Sherlock's eyes snapped back open. 

_Already?_

He'd thought perhaps that night or...he didn't know the staff yet or even their faces. He didn't have- but he needed- there still had to be done- he reached for Mycroft as his logic failed him and he was left with no other reason for Mycroft to stay other than _oh please god no I'm so fucking terrified._

When his wrist was caught by the restraints, he curled his fingers and made tight fists to keep himself from reaching back out, his heart rate shooting skyward at a painfully sharp incline. 

"I-I-I'll b-b-be able to c-cal-l if they s-start h-hu-hurting-" he cleared his throat and looked away, knowing that was wrong. Mycroft would be cross if he voiced his fear that he was going to be hurt. He dragged in a panicked breath and looked back at Mycroft. 

“Y-You p-p-promis-s-se that...that I'm-m sa-safe?" Oh _god_ he was scared.

Mycroft held Sherlock close and moved his arm to hold his hand. 

"You are safe in this room. Right here. This room is safe for you. Look," he pointed up into the corner. 

"Cameras. I'll be protecting you at all times. You will be safe and sound. Here," Mycroft dug in his pocket and placed his phone on the bed under Sherlock's hand. 

"Speed dial one. If you ask anyone here they will let you use their phone, but that one is just for you. They can't take it from you."

Sherlock hid his face against his brother's chest, clutching the phone in a bloodless grip. His ears kicked up in a single, shrill tone, heart thundering under his ribs. 

"T-tel-l them t-to l-l-leav-ve my li-light on? N-never d-dark," his voice broke over the words as he did his best to keep himself together, shoulders violently shaking as he tried to press closer to his brother for another moment. 

Mycroft nodded. "You will never be in the dark. I will tell them to leave the lights on. You're safe. Sherlock, I know this is going to be frightening, but I'm going to be here for you. I swear. I love you."

Sherlock forced himself to ease back away from Mycroft. He was having to breathe through parted lips, swift and fast, his chest so tight he'd have wondered if he were having a heart attack were he not connected to the monitors. He grit his teeth, nodding at his brother. 

"K," he managed, looking back to the camera in the corner before pinching his eyes shut. 

_He's never going to come back. They can't stand you. You're a pox, and it's better to just dump you here. He's never coming back. John's never coming back. You're never leaving._

Moran started up without a visual body, walking up from the back of Sherlock's mind. 

"I l-lov-ve you," he all but squeaked, nearly coming out of his skin with fright and he'd not yet spent a moment alone.

Mycroft paused.

How was he going to leave? 

How on earth was he going to walk out of the room when his brother was so frightened? 

"I love you, my little 'Lock. I'll watch over you. I'll come back. I promise you." Mycroft's stomach twisted into knots and he shut his eyes. 

"And I am sorry I have to leave you. I am so sorry. I don't want to, but this is what I have to do. I need to keep working for your own sake. I can't pay for John's protection if I don't work." Honest, raw sorrow leaked into his voice. "I'm sorry. I won't leave you for long."

Sherlock was bloodying the inside of his mouth as he felt his brother begin to shift away. He was not going to beg, he wasn't. 

_Jesus, is he ever going to leave? You and I haven't had a proper chat in too long, I'm looking forward to it._

Moran stole John's words - _I’m looking forward to it_ -as his voice grew louder in Sherlock's head. He tried to latch on to Mycroft's words, hearing raw honesty in his brother's tone. John didn't love him anymore, but his brother did. He turned his face down to the pillow as much as his position would allow, tears trailing a path so well traveled they no longer bothered with a drop formation, tracing the wet path and pulsing down his cheeks rhythmically. 

_You are so cute when you cry. He's still walking out. You're going to bits and he's going to walk out. Claiming money. Your brother is feigning financial woes. Oh Sherlock, you're such an impossible freak that you've driven them all away._

He tried to open his mouth and say something in parting, but he'd lost command of his tongue and found himself mute, simply tensing and preparing for what was to come. 

Mycroft knew that if he left now, he could come back once at the end of the day before he went to sleep. He could also stay until dark, leave then, and work all night. As much as it pained him, and as selfish as he felt, Mycroft slowly released his hold on Sherlock. 

"I've got to go now, 'Lock, but I'll be back. I promise you." As soon as he was standing beside Sherlock's bed, Mycroft had the intense urge to crawl back in and hold him. 

"Please, don't cry. I'll come back for you. I will be back today. It won't be very long."

Sherlock managed to give Mycroft a tight nod, not daring to open his eyes. He'd watched John walk out. He could not handle the imagery of his brother doing the same. His mind so delighted in handing him memories when he'd not asked for them, and he did not want this flashing before his eyes at odd times. 

Sherlock managed to drag in half a breath and hold it, forcing himself to count to three before slowly releasing it, a mental exercise to distract himself from the present. He was shaking hard enough for the strain on the bits of metal connecting the bed to be audible, fear aggressively tearing into his heart. 

Mycroft wanted to say more, but needed to get used to walking away. He turned his back and walked out as quietly as he could, heart pulled painfully. 

He questioned himself over and over, but always seemed to decide that he needed to retain his position in order to best help Sherlock. 

Sherlock held exactly as he had been, counting and breathing, not daring to look or think beyond _inhale...two...three....exhale_ until the force of his shaking and the strength he used to brace himself taxed his muscles to failure. He slowly relaxed against the mattress despite himself.

_Open your eyes Shirly, you're alone and you don't know this room. We know what new rooms mean, don't we love?_

Sherlock cracked his swollen eyelids open, sweeping his eyes over the room again. What details had he latched onto for this? He began to frantically search as he slowly starting to pull at his restraints. He sought out anything that would remind him of what was happening. When both of his hands reached the limit of available motion, liquid fear poured down his throat, pooling in his stomach. He tugged again, not accustomed to finding himself in four-points any longer, usually allowed a hand. 

_You don't need hands for this._

"N-no, NO!" Sherlock screamed as he began to struggle against the restraints in earnest, watching as Moran took shape in the corner of the room, picking his nails with a dull blade. Sherlock's stomach turned and he shook his head, unable to breathe from the pure fear of it. 

_You've endured half an hour of solitude. You've got years and years left with me. Best to make it easy on yourself._

Sherlock's stomach rolled and he gagged, honestly giving struggle to the restraints then. His monitor tripped as his heart began to race upwards of one-hundred and fifty, the secondary result meant people moving into his room that he'd never seen before, all in medical fare, all rushing him. He could not speak as he was suddenly sicking up where he lay, stuck on his back, choking as his airway filled. 

People were touching him and a tube shoved into his mouth, his jaw forcibly held open. Clipped screams interrupted the sound of suction as more and more of his airway was cleared, sounding as a man screaming while drowning. He dug his nails into anyone who touched him, coughing and gagging around the tube in his mouth, tears flooding over his cheeks. 

Four minutes later, he lay limp on the bed as the sedative someone on the team pushed finally dropped him down mid-scream, leaving him breathing chaotically, sweat-slicked curls stuck to his forehead. Miller, who'd been one of the first in, took to helping the nursing staff swap out Sherlock's bedding, keeping a hand on Sherlock's shoulder. 

Mycroft stared at his computer monitor. He had the first line of the document typed up, and the second only consisted of 'In addition'. He resisted the urge to look back at the feed again. He had watched Sherlock the entire car ride to his office, which was only fifteen minutes, and only saw him breathing rhythmically.

While he believed in the capability of the medical staff, and knew that the entire point of him leaving Sherlock in the first place was so he could get some work done, Mycroft couldn't help but open the window on his computer. His heart squeezed painfully when he saw the obvious evidence that there had been some ordeal, that the bed sheets had been changed, and Sherlock was drugged. Mycroft texted Miller right away. 

_What happened?_

Miller's reply came swift. 

_He panicked. He's mostly sedated now, not entirely down._

Sherlock lay there, slightly elevated and he'd been moved more to lay on his better side, worry over him aspirating again making them get creative with the restraints. Moran was directly in front of his face, breathing on him and reeking of brandy. 

_That arm hurts, doesn't it? You shouldn't have pulled so hard, poppet._

He sluggishly blinked, trying to draw back and caught fast by the restraints. He gave a soft, resigned whimper of fear, tremors racing over his body despite the medication, sweat soaked and aching with fear. 

"Wh-what am-m I...s'poss-sed to s-say?" he whispered to a man who was not there. 

Mycroft watched as his brother reacted to something he could not see and texted again. 

_He's hallucinating. Please put him on the phone._

Mycroft clicked Miller's contact and bounced his leg up and down. This wasn't good. He was supposed to be working, and he would eventually have to hang up, which would cause problems. But he couldn't simply let Sherlock believe that someone was hurting him. 

Miller answered the line without speaking to Mycroft, moving to where Sherlock would see him. "Sherlock, your brother wants to talk to you," he offered gently, reaching up with the intention of putting the phone to Sherlock's ear. Sherlock flinched back hard and away, trying again to twist out of his restraints despite the pain it lanced up his arm. 

Miller simply hit the speaker and spoke swiftly. "Mycroft, you're on speaker."

Mycroft watched the screen as he spoke. "Sherlock, it's My." His voice echoed from the computer. "I'm watching right now. Is everything okay? You look a little frightened." 

Sherlock's eyes slammed shut and he cried out. The combination of the voice over speakers and the suggestion that he was again being watched by eyes he could not see nearly made him black out. Mycroft's voice sounded so very different over a tinny speaker. Miller leaned to his right, opening up Sherlock's oxygen a bit more as he began to hyperventilate again. 

He tugged hard at his restraints, wanting to shield his head and curl in on himself, twisting his wrists in the bonds and rolling his shoulder while tears slid down his cheeks. 

"N-not ag-g-gain," he whispered to himself in horrified Latin, repeating the denial over and over under his breath as he fought against the bonds holding him down. 

"No, 'Lock, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to hurt you, I just...God, I just wanted to say that I'm here for you, alright?" 

Mycroft dragged his hand over his face and repeated the phrase in several languages. "I'm here for you. Je suis toujoursici pour toi." 

Sherlock did not respond at all to his brother, the sedative and physical exertion, combined with the acute stress of prolonged fear suddenly reached up and pulled him unconscious, his breath seizing up before finally going lax. Miller moved in the next moment, taking a second to confirm what he suspected with Mycroft.

"He's fainted. I bet he'll sleep for a while." 

"Jesus. Alright. Alert me if he needs to speak with me again. I'll get back to work." 

Mycroft stared again at the document before him. It was going to be incredibly challenging to work under this sort of emotional stress.


	17. Chapter 17

Miller sent a text to Mycroft three hours after they'd last spoken. 

_Your brother is awake. Medically he's doing mostly well. Heart rate is still elevated but I don't think that's a surprise for anyone._

Sherlock lay just as he had been when he'd blacked out, staring directly ahead of himself, lips silently moving and otherwise not behaving as though he were alert in any way. 

Mycroft was working in short bursts of activity punctuated by periods of pensive silence, wherein he thought of his brother and the condition he was in. The text wasn't unexpected, but he was still worried.

_Let me know if he needs help._

Miller replied that he would, and otherwise went back to his case notes, leaving Sherlock alone. Paul was likewise in the building, though returning to his normal rounds. He'd carry on with them when needed, but he was interested in the patient's he'd handed over. 

Sherlock was locked in place, listening to Moran as he dragged a blade over whetstone, cigarette dangling between his lips. 

_I always wanted to work on John again, you know? Scar tissue cuts different than fresh skin, it's fascinating. Sometimes it won't bleed, others it's like cutting an artery. John has initials on him. I was looking forward to peeling the letters open. Instead, you'll have to do._

Sherlock closed his eyes in fear, tugging lightly at his restraints, audibly hearing the chains rattle against the hard metal table. It reeked of blood and fear, and his entire body tingled with the threat of fires and blades. 

_Did you think you got out? That brother_ saved you _? No such luck, poppet. It was cute though when you looked so hopeful. Like the times I dressed as a copper and made John think he was saved. He cried and cried with relief. Adorable. Now, legs or belly, Sherls? We've so much work to do._

Sherlock's monitor blipped as his heart skipped several beats, leaving Sherlock whimpering in acute fear, muscles locked up tight and braced against the pain he knew was coming. Miller looked up from his work, watching Sherlock and then looking at the rhythm on the monitor, waiting to see if it would settle down. 

Mycroft was working at 67.8% of his normal speed, he calculated. In fact, he had already calculated his average output years ago, and adjusted it monthly as he improved to keep himself growing. He's never been down more than three points in the past four years, and generally his major disappointments were when he failed to be as efficient as he had projected his growth to be. 

His quality was also down. As was his focus. Motivation. Awareness. It all went downhill with each tired thought he sent back to Sherlock. While he could not realistically say he would not check the monitor just because someone else was, he could state that he would only look at it for one minute every thirty minutes. 

He needed rules to keep himself on task. 

Mycroft worked for his thirty minutes, then checked the screen. Sherlock looked distraught, which wasn't unexpected, but instilled in Mycroft a protective urge to go to him regardless. 

While Mycroft tried to work, Sherlock was locked in a hazy fog. As was the case in any dream, there was a jump in time and situation that in no way was fluid or normal, though Sherlock's mind did not question it. Hot breath at the back of his neck preceded the feel of an overly large, hatefully familiar hand wrapping around his bicep and squeezing until he nearly screamed. Moran was speaking to him, but he could not hear through the rush of his pulse, tripping and staggering over itself, raging over his eardrums. Pain sliced down his back and he could not decide if he was being cut with a knife this time, or if the tail of the whip parted his flesh. A scream tore out of his chest before he began to choke, fists balled so tight that his skin pulled to far, bleeding at the entrance sites of the pins. 

Miller was on his feet, moving over to Sherlock's line of sight and crouching down to eye level, speaking softly to him. 

"Sherlock, it's Miller. You're safe, no one is here but you and I. Sherlock, breathe, take a breath." 

The result was catastrophic. Sherlock's eyes flew open and honed in on the man he so frequently mistook for Moran. He jumped hard and began to try and scramble back, screaming nonsensically, straining the binding on his wrists and ankles. The door opened but Miller shouted at them to leave. Sherlock had already been sedated twice, they really couldn't risk a third round. He reached down and put his hands on Sherlock's wrists over the restraints to keep him from thrashing, and spoke to him as calmly and clearly as he could. 

"Sherlock. You are safe. Stop. You have to stop moving. Sherlock," he repeated again and again, shaking his head after a minute of trying to calm him. Sherlock jerked desperately with his leg and a hot fire licked up the length of it, shooting pain into his groin and up his spine. He gave a shattered cry and abruptly went very, very still, panicked eyes wide and staring. 

_It was cool and dark in the house. The rotted wood was sweet smelling in the chemicals of decay. Sherlock sat down on the floor, savoring the sick dampness, slowly laying on his side curled in a tight ball. Minutes later, the sound of his frightened crying echoed in the ruined stairwells of his mind.John was up, much as he wished he was not. Outside of his mind was terrifying enough._

Mycroft was in his car being driven to the hospital. How could he not? His heart nearly leapt out of his chest when Sherlock screamed and Mycroft barked at the driver to speed up. 

Mycroft flew down the hallway, walking with long strides and a grim expression to Sherlock's room. It only took him twelve minutes from the time he left to the time he turned the handle on Sherlock's door and rushed to his side. 

"Sherlock? Please, it's me. It's My. I am right here, and you are safe." 

He wrapped his arms around his baby brother and decided he would not go back to work.

Sherlock was in a cold sweat, trembling and completely withdrawn. Miller only let go of Sherlock when Mycroft arrived, moving down to his foot to assess what damage Sherlock had done. His expression turned serious. 

"Mycroft I have to call ortho in here right now. He- we have to discuss ways to restrain him where he can't do this." 

Sherlock could hear muffled voices through the walls and pulled in on himself tighter, covering his ears and starting to recite his numbers. He whispered audibly to himself without intending to. "Z-Zero, o-on-ne, o-one, t-two..." 

"Alright, alright, but not now." Mycroft didn't want Sherlock to have more restraints. The idea of him held down any more completely nauseated the protective older brother.

He bent over Sherlock and placed a kiss on his forehead. 

"Three, five, eight," he tapped the numbers on Sherlock's arm. Hopefully Moran hadn't been clever enough to know their significance.

Miller took to tending Sherlock's leg as best he could then and there, feeling Sherlock flinch and try to pull away from him. He managed what he could and then stepped back, excusing himself from the room without another word. 

_Sherlock was trying desperately to disconnect with his body, the pain in his leg resuming as someone leaned over him, breath against his hairline. He began to whimper as he got up, pathetically dragging himself deeper into his mind, splinters in his hand and cold damp soaking into his clothes._

_Then came the tapping. Moran never tapped on him like that, not unless it was followed by the sudden burn of ash falling from a cigarette. He focused in on the sensation, recognizing the continuation of the sequence. He whimpered again, so very desperately wanting that to be his brother trying to get him._ In terrified Latin, Sherlock breathed a trembling "Thirteen." 

Mycroft was thrilled Sherlock was responding and it urged him on. "Twenty one." He tapped it on Sherlock's shoulder, twenty one taps, then related the number in morse code.

"Come on, 'Lock. You're safe." He repeated the phrase in taps.

_Sherlock's back bumped against the lowest of the stairs that wrapped upwards, curling in tightly on himself as the tapping resumed. Carefully he counted the reply. Moran was smart enough to figure out the sequence, though he'd never gone to such lengths to mentally play him. He dug his hands into his hair, rocking lightly to soothe himself as he tried to figure out what to do._

Mycroft continued to tap on Sherlock's shoulder. 

_You are safe. It's My who is tapping. I have you. Try to listen to my voice._

"'Lock, it is me. It is safe to come out now. I've got you."

_Sherlock was on his feet the second he registered_ My _, running for the door as fast as he could._

"My," he breathed as his blurred vision began to focus, instantly reaching for Mycroft and shouting as his hands were caught, giving struggle. 

"My! HELP!" he fought desperately against his restraints, completely sure that he was on the metal table, bleeding freely. Tears tracked down his cheeks and he choked on the desperate force of his fear, screaming for help as he tried to break loose. 

Mycroft continued to tap on Sherlock, but focused mainly on his voice. "It's My. You are safe. I'm here." Mycroft quickly unclasped Sherlock's better arm, though he didn't let him have complete freedom with it. Instead, he moved it gently to Sherlock's chest and held it there, protected under his hand. 

"You are safe. You're safe." 

Sherlock grabbed at his chest, deeply glad to have a hand loose from the restraint. "My," he breathed in panic, "My...My help...help," he whispered as though they'd be discovered. He began to sob in exhausted fear.

Mycroft climbed into bed on the side that Sherlock wasn't restrained on and wrapped him up tight in his arms. "I'm helping. I am. I'm right here for you, keeping you safe."

Sherlock buried into Mycroft's arms, hiding his face against his brother's chest. "M-make him...g-go away-y...make....m-make him..." Sherlock pulled at his restraints as he tried to literally climb under Mycroft, feeling the heated, brandy-laced breath on his neck.

"N-NO!" He shouted. He grabbed at Mycroft as the sensation of callused fingers ghosted intimately down his lower back, turning his stomach and making him flush cold. "My," he wailed, terrified in childlike purity, "m-make him leave!"

Mycroft shielded Sherlock from the hospital room and it's invisible terrors with his body. "I'm here. I'm helping you. I won't let anyone hurt you. Could you focus on me? Could you tell me where you are?" 

Mycroft took Sherlock's face in his hands and stared at him intently. "Where are you?"

Sherlock's eyes flicked nervously from Mycroft's to a space just over Mycroft's shoulder, sobbing as he tried to burrow deeper into the bed.

"I...I d-don't....I don't kn-know where h-he....he n-never s-s-said-d," he breathed in Latin, banking on Moran not knowing the language.

"It's okay. You are in a hospital. A proper hospital. One with real, good people in it who want to help you. I've paid them to do so. And I'm here. Your big brother is here." Mycroft felt wave upon wave of guilt forcing him under.

If he had been faster, this wouldn't have happened.

Sherlock's eyes widened for a moment before he cried out, shaking his head and speaking in a panic. "N-No it's n-not it's not! Why...I w-want...I w-want to leave! Y-you're n-n-not...n-not taking-g me with-th you?" He'd gone sheet white in his fear. Did his brother not see the table, not see Moran?

The betrayal and panic in Sherlock's voice was ripping holes in Mycroft's chest, but he remained steady. 

"I took you with me. I took you home and somewhere safe. Now, you're just confused. You're at a hospital."

Sherlock's expression crumpled and he pulled his hand from Mycroft, sinking it into his own hair and pulling as tight as he could. 

"I h-h-hav-ve to st-st-stay-y? Wh-why! I...I...I'll b-be good I'll...I'll… _.pl-please!_ " His tear-blurred focus slid off his brother and back to Moran, who was in abject delight at Sherlock's acute distress. 

_What did I tell you? You're with me for years and years._

Sherlock's stomach rolled and he screamed until his vocal chords simply quit and the sound died to nothing, though he was still trying to vent his terror. He grabbed at his brother again, starting to babble as he spoke too quickly to actually form words, choking and sputtering as he tried to negotiate. 

"Ple- My I'll- an-anything! ANYTHING! Pl-PLE-PLEASE! _PLEASE!_ G-God d-d-d-don't-t make m-me st-st-stay PLEASE!" Moran's laughter rang out around his panicked tears while he begged mercy, doing nothing but heightening his fear.

Mycroft leaned over his brother and pulled Sherlock up off the bed into his arms. 

"Sherlock, please," he muttered, voice broken. "You are safe. I'm here for you. I'm keeping you safe, see?" He held Sherlock's head to his chest and blinked rapidly. 

"I'm not making you stay. You're in a hospital. The people here are kind!" 

Sherlock's tone was scattering his mind. He felt helpless, like a ghost forced to watch suffering he couldn't affect. Thinking once more that proximity would help, Mycroft held Sherlock's face close to his own. "Look at me. LOOK at me. I love you. I'm not going to let anyone hurt you."

Sherlock grabbed Mycroft's wrist in a frigid, trembling grip and stared up at him as he cried, utterly unable to make sense of the situation. Moran was there, and he was being hurt. He could see the watermark on the ceiling and the blood on the walls, was cold with the constant draft, the chains holding him down rattling against the metal, and still Mycroft was _there_ and telling him he was safe. 

"I d-d-on't-t und-derst-t-tand," he whispered through the bitter fear in his mouth, tears streaming down his face, "pl-lease I...I...g-get-t me off th-the tt-t-table, pl-please he- he's g-g-going to-" his eyes cut to Moran, try to sort out what plans the hateful man had. 

Mycroft pulled Sherlock's covers up around him. "You have blankets, pillows, and a mattress. Doesn't it feel good? This isn't a table, Sherlock, it's a bed. You have a bed. This is a safe place." 

Mycroft texted his secretary, who had apparently left the poster with the front desk, and texted Miller discretely. 

_There is a space poster at the front desk. I think it would help._

Miller moved as soon as the text came through, responding swiftly. 

_I'll fetch it._

Mycroft moved and then there was soft fabric at the side of Sherlock's face. He shivered hard and stared at his brother, trying to understand, still holding tight to Mycroft's wrist. "P-Pl-please, My..." he whispered, trembling hard enough to seriously tax his strength, "I h-h-hurt-t...I w-w-want-t to go h-home...he-e...g-going t-to hurt-" he shook his head and dropped his hand away from Mycroft, sobbing in defeat. 

"Listen to me, Sherlock. I am your older brother. You know how our relationship goes. You get into trouble, and I get you out. I watch over you whether you want me to or not. I love you. Nobody is going to hurt you, see?" Mycroft pulled the covers higher and shielded anything not covered with his arms or hands. 

"You can be at peace. You are safe with me."

Miller knocked lightly on the door as Sherlock closed his eyes, hiding under his brother, deeply, painfully confused. Miller spoke softly as he came in. 

"I have the poster, and also Paul is in the building if you'd like for me to call him. Sherlock's really at his max dose for anti-anxiety medication for the next few hours, it would be best if we could manage without trying to dose him again for a while longer."

Sherlock made a small, pleading sound of fear, struggling deeply with himself, tugging at the restraint on his bad arm.Brute force had not worked to free him from the chains, so he began to trace his fingers over the cuff, looking for structural weakness as he already had on that damn table near a half-million times. 

_Hallucinating on me, Sherlock? That's not very polite. Who do you see? John? Big brother? Who are you going to scream for today?_

Sherlock's hand suddenly shot out, clutching at Mycroft's shirt just over his heart, needing to feel that his brother was solid and real. Was it Moran who was the hallucination, or Mycroft? 

"My," he whispered in fright, tugging weakly on his sibling. 

Mycroft nodded to Miller, but his primary focus was Sherlock. "Yes, 'Lock, I'm here. I am right here. I love you." He pressed Sherlock's hand against his chest and collected his thoughts. 

"Do you want some water? Or music? I can help you with anything you want. This is a safe place. I am real. I'm solid and breathing right here. You are just scared and confused, but you can trust me."

Sherlock pulled on Mycroft, trying to get closer to him. "I w-w-wan't-t him t-to _l-leave_ ," he begged, sobbing in fright after he'd said so, cutting his eyes over to Moran once again. Miller tracked Sherlock's focus, having expected it to be on him personally. Instead Sherlock was looking over his brother's shoulder at nothing in particular. Miller frowned and set the poster aside, not particularly wanting to hover above Sherlock while he was so deeply confused. 

Sherlock shook his head, trying to understand what was happening, "P-Please I'm... h-he's..." Sherlock shook his head again and pinched his eyes closed. 

_Maybe big brother will take your place? Would you like that? I bet he sounds delicious when he's screaming._

"SHUT-T UP!" Sherlock suddenly screamed, grabbing at his brother in a desperate bid to move him from harm's way. 

Mycroft kept Sherlock's hand at his heart and wondered if he could feel how tight his chest felt. "He will leave, because he isn't real. I am real, and he can not hurt you or me." He kissed his brother's forehead and lingered there for several seconds. 

Mycroft looked over his shoulder at the empty space. "There is no one there! Nobody is going to hurt you. You are hallucinating right now, Sherlock. Your mind is projecting images. Tell me what you know about hallucinations and how they seem real." 

Sherlock shook his head, panicking. "I d-don't-t _know_ ," he breathed, shuddering in fear and groaning from exhaustion, "Y-you don't s-s-see h-him? He's..." Sherlock turned his eyes back to Moran, speaking swift and low. 

"He d-d-doesn't s-s-see you," he hissed, staring hard at the image of the man. Details, where were the details? Moran was...not there in his entirety, Sherlock realized with a start. When he looked at Moran's body, Moran's face blurred to nothing. When he looked at his face, the body seemed to fade. 

That wasn't right at all. 

"M-My," he whined in fear, looking back at Mycroft as tears streamed down his cheeks, "wh-what's wrong with m-me?" 

Mycroft continued to stroke Sherlock's hair. "You know how in a dream, things happen and you don't question them? Time skips, people that don't make sense, and senses that don't line up? It's like that. Moran couldn't be here. Why would he let me in here to unclasp your hand? It doesn't line up, because I am here. I have you." 

Sherlock nodded as he cried, choosing to listen to his brother instead of the horrible voice of his tormentor. "O-Okay...I...I c-can st-still see..." he shook his head and turned his face away, wanting to hide. 

"M-My I'm sc-scared, I'm s-s-scared My," he breathed, struggling to keep from screaming as Moran laughed and began to sharpen his knife again, the smell of blood and cigarette smoke curling in the air. 

"I c-c-can't do th-this please I c-can't do this! My h-help, I'm-" he whimpered as he shut his mouth, heart racing and stomach twisting. 

Mycroft continued to explain. "Yes, you can. Your mind is incredibly strong. It has shown you an image of Moran, and you have recognized that it is fake." Mycroft pointed into the area Sherlock had been fixated on.

"It is not real, and you know it. Now the battle is in your mind. You know it's fake, now you need to convince your mind."

Sherlock pinched his eyes closed, breathing wildly, repeating his brother's words in his mind. He set them to the sound Moran was making, the shivering laughter and the terrifying words. He was drenched in pain, both phantom and pulsing up from where he'd hurt himself. It was relentless and aching, adding to his exhaustion, leaving him confused and worn thin. 

"I'm-m s-s-so ti-tired-d, My...ev-everth-thing hurt-s." He groaned and pulled on his brother, burning through his reserves as he lay there shivering. 

"I know it hurts. If you would be still, it would be more comfortable." Mycroft was trying to pick his words carefully and avoid anything that sounded even remotely close to what Moran might have said. _Relax_ was out. 

"I'm here and I am protecting you. I came back. I'll always come back when you ask. I love you."

_I came back._

Sherlock went very still, intentionally holding the air in his lungs, not daring to breathe as he focused on those words in his confusion. _Back._ As in 'I've been here before, left, and then returned.' His brother had known where Sherlock was, had been and then gone. 

Sherlock's eyes scanned the room again, his battered mind still struggling to puzzle out where he was and why. He'd just begun to accept Moran as false when the blood-slicked walls slowly brought themselves back to corporeal form, dank and nauseating. 

It didn't make sense to him. Mycroft was saving him, but he was insisting there was nothing to be saved from. Sherlock swallowed as he looked back over to Moran, tensing in fear. What had Mycroft said? He wasn't real, surely. Right? He wasn't real because...because...

_Oh, go on then. This should be good. Why am I not real, sunshine? I'm just dying to hear it._

The air whistled as it split under the harsh leather of the whip, cracking just beside Sherlock's ear. Sherlock held perfectly still, staring at a distant spot on the wall as he prepared himself for pain, tears slowly rolling down his cheeks and breath trapped in his lungs. 

"Sherlock?" 

Mycroft hated it when he couldn't see what was going on inside his brother's mind. 

"Come on, Sherlock, you need to breathe. Come on. You're alright. Moran isn't real because his image wavers, because he hasn't hurt you, because I am here, and you are in a hospital on a bed. I am real because you can feel me, it makes sense with your memories that I am here, and I am not out of place in the surroundings."

Sherlock did not dare move as Moran spoke over Mycroft, simply repeating everything the man said in a mocking, sing-song voice. 

_Oh, I'm real, Sherlock. Are you not in pain right now? Would you like to feel me? It's been weeks, I'm sure you're dying for it._

Sherlock pinched his eyes closed, exhaling and then drawing in a swift, clipped breath and holding it again. His heart rolled in his chest and he whimpered in defeated fear, too exhausted to rally against his own mind when he wasn't even sure which way to go. Mycroft...he attempted to put his focus to Mycroft. He was warm, at the least, and felt real enough. 

_Brother is going to leave you with me again later, Sherls. We'll talk then. I imagine you'd like our meetings to remain...private…_

Sherlock's eyes cut wide and panicked to Mycroft, suddenly grabbing hold of him with all the strength he had left, nearly blacking out from exhaustion alone. 

"Y-You c-can't. You c-c-an't-t! I'll d-die, pl-pleas-se y-you..." he swallowed hard as the words trailed off, physical energy failing him as his grip loosened despite his efforts. As his strength failed, his grip loosened, trembling as he tried to keep hold of Mycroft. 

Mycroft held Sherlock's hands in his own and aided his brother in hanging on to his shirt. "It's okay, 'Lock. I won't hurt you, and I won't let you be hurt. I love you. Love. I'm right here for you." 

He was at a complete loss for what else to say. Moran was surely torturing Sherlock, but there was nothing he could see that would help. 

"Could you tell me about one of your cases with John? You don't have to, but I would like to hear. What about that one where you two were tearing around on the boat, chasing a tiny man and treasure? Or the one with all the women? Any sort of story you would be willing to tell, I'd be willing to hear."

Sherlock’s mental process ground to a halt as he listened to Mycroft. 

John. 

Sherlock closed his eyes as image after soothing image of John came to mind. He effortlessly recalled all the small nuances in his facial expressions, the slight variation in pitch while he spoke that gave away how he was truly feeling. John with his soft jumpers and hard composure and John, who killed to keep Sherlock safe and who ran with him despite his cane and-

_No! N-No please! I d-don't w-want...pl-please NO! GO A-AWAY PLEASE H-HELP!_

John, who was bleeding so terribly Sherlock wasn't sure where he could touch to lift him. John, who despised him. John, who he'd lost. Sherlock's chest dipped on a deeply grieved cry, confusion twisting in his gut. 

_I took him on your coat. I only had to do it the one time, but he knows it was you._

Sherlock gagged hard, saliva and acid rushing to the back of his tongue. He shook his head and tried to swallow around it, pushing it down as much as he could. Through the tears he began to speak, wanting his old understanding of John back, if only for a comforting fantasy that any moment his dearest and most trusted friend would come to collect him. 

_You never came! You l-left me there! I k-kept hoping and y-you never came and th-then you w-were hurting me!_

Sherlock whimpered again, closing his mouth before managing to speak, his entire expression pulled down in sharp, acute pain. "I w-would-d hav-ve g-gone after h-him," he whispered as he cried, grief twisting up the pitch of his words. "I l-lef-ft him there and-d...wh-where is J-John? Where- oh g-g-god wh-what if h-h-he's here! My, wh-where is J-John?"

Mycroft swore at himself mentally before continuing. "John is safe and with Greg. He is nowhere near Moriarty, or Moran, and he is not being hurt. You are safe." With a heavy heart, Mycroft tried to gain some semblance of comfort by holding Sherlock's head to his chest and brushing his hair back. 

"I'm sorry, 'Lock. I shouldn't have asked. How about- I'll read from the blog. That could help." Mycroft fumbled for his phone and found John's old blog. He scrolled through to find the least violent one, then began. 

"When the owner of a Knightsbridge Chinese restaurant was found lying face down in a plate of noodles, Lestrade came to see Sherlock. The man, Terry Wong, had choked to death and, at first, it appeared to be an accident. But bruising on Wong's face suggested that he'd been attacked at some point on the evening of his death." 

Sherlock quieted as his brother read to him of a life now lost, pulling to mind fragments of memory from the specific case. It had been a good one, in which John had puzzled out most of it on his own. Sherlock could remember the pride as he watched John employ his own methods, the way the man's brow creased in thought when working on something as he normally would not. It was an exercise for John, but that was how they all improved, through the struggle. 

Eventually he slipped into something of a light doze, clinging as much as his strength would allow to Mycroft. His leg throbbed and his arm was a point of great physical pain, but Moran had gone quiet and Mycroft was familiar. 

Miller finally poked his head in the door when it had been quiet the last half-hour gone. "Mycroft, we really do need to treat that leg," he whispered, overly worried on the damage Sherlock had managed in his struggles. 

Mycroft continued to read, even going down into the comments to tell him what Mrs. Hudson had thought of the case, or how John had defended him against a random haggler. He opened up his mental file for things that worked to help Sherlock and added reading from the blog into it. 

Miller's reminder was a bit saddening, but Mycroft nodded despite it. "Yes, that's for the best. Is there anything you would like me to do? I would like to stay with him."

Miller shook his head. "I've got to bring ortho in here to look, if...maybe if you could keep Sherlock from seeing us if he wakes. We'll do our best to keep him sleeping," he whispered before returning to the hall and motioning for the doctor to come in. 

Sherlock was deeply honed in on the vibrations of speech through his brother's chest, pinpointing on his brother's breathing and state of tension. Mycroft seemed calm, and therefore Sherlock allowed himself to float in the shallow rest. 

It wasn't until his leg twinged and then roared to life in brilliant pain that he sucked in a sharp breath and simply began to cry, accepting what was being done as kept his face to his brother's chest. He did not give struggle. He did not understand, but he’d accepted that he wasn't going to understand. The violent trembling returned to his limbs, but he otherwise did not move, simply weeping in pained exhaustion against his brother's chest.

Mycroft began to read again, louder this time, but just as calm. He used the voice he often did when in a debate, at that awful point where the other person became emotional about the topic, and he would need to bring them back down to a functioning level of logic. 

"Sherlock's had some mad cases over the last couple of years and I wouldn't say I've ever got entirely used to them, but nothing, and I mean nothing, could have prepared me for what we found at 29, Ryder Lane in Brockley.

“Greg called us in. It was a typical suburban house in a typical suburban street. But inside that typical suburban house were two bodies. And an elephant. An actual elephant. Standing there in the middle of the room looking, well a bit bored, to be honest."   
Mycroft held Sherlock's head and continued on, to the part where John said he wouldn't be divulging any secrets and Sherlock claimed he would be using it in the best man speech.   
Miller watched as ortho worked, swiftly injecting Sherlock just under his knee to block sensation. Sherlock jumped hard and began to twist under his brother as he whimpered fearfully. Miller held his leg in place and soon the numbing agents began to work, allowing Sherlock to relax again back into the story.

Despite the pain in his leg, Sherlock’s mind offered him images from the case Mycroft was reading. John had stared at that damned elephant for nearly seven minutes before he'd moved. It had been hilarious, though Sherlock had not dared let on that he thought as much. 

"Sh-should h-have t-talked about this-s one at his w-wedding..." Sherlock whispered through pained tears, twitching when he felt metal on bone before crying out, clutching at Mycroft as his breathing tripped over itself. He'd given John so many reasons to leave. John had suffered terribly through the ordeal with his wife, and through her unexpected death, and _Jesus_ he was lost. He was lost, and John was gone, and when John pulled the blog down it would all be over for him. 

"J-Jo-John's going to d-delete th-the blog," he whispered sadly, "it w-will be lost."

Mycroft shook his head. "No, no, don't worry. He won't delete it. He loves you so much. Here, let's go back to the time you first met. He's some lovely things to say about you. 

'It's mad. I think he might be mad. He was certainly arrogant and really quite rude and he looks about 12 and he's clearly a bit public school and, yes, I definitely think he might be mad but he was also strangely likeable. He was charming.-'" Mycroft interjected. "See, Sherlock, _charming."_

Mycroft kissed the top of Sherlock's head, then continued. 

"'-It really was all just a bit strange. So tomorrow, we're off to look at a flat. Me and the madman. Me and Sherlock Holmes.'" Mycroft stopped then and took Sherlock's hand. 

"See? Sherlock, he was enthralled by you even from the beginning."

Sherlock listened as his brother spoke, jerking occasionally from pain that shot up his leg, calling to mind the day he'd first met John Watson. He was swiftly losing the fond joy at the memory, the haze of regret and sadness leeching the calm peace that used to come with thoughts of John. 

John had been so newly back that his tan had yet to fade. He'd killed the cabby not long after, still so battle-fresh that he never paused to consider another way of handling the situation. He'd been all fire and danger, all rough edges and sharp, cloying loneliness. Sherlock had honed in on that swifter than anything else. John's outward demeanor was intentionally prickly, intentionally stiff, to keep at bay how deeply steeped in loss he was. 

"H-he was l-lonely," Sherlock whispered as tears rolled down his face, "and s-so...so...I l-loved him and I d-didn't kn-know that's what it was...l-love. I didn't believe I w-was capable of...of f-feeling...ha-having s-something s-s-so normal and h-he..." 

Miller and the ortho slowly moved themselves back out of the room now that Sherlock's leg was properly tended, a much less forgiving restraint holding it in place with a tight strap down over Sherlock's knee and another holding his ankle in traction where they wanted it. Sherlock was oblivious to it all. 

"G-Greg is tak-king care of him? H-he knows J-John doesn't l-like the dark and h-h-he's scared of w-water, r-right? He's n-not sc-scaring John is h-he?"

Mycroft held his brother close. "Yes, John was very lonely. He was depressed, living alone, and not doing well at all. You changed that. You made his life worth living. And Greg would never scare John. He knows what John likes more than any of the other doctors or nurses." 

Mycroft didn't want to sing Greg's praises, as he didn't wish Sherlock to be depressed by the fact that he had been replaced. 

"Greg wouldn't scare John. Here, let's just read another." 

The next was the write up of the Study in Pink story, wherein John brushed over the entire murder case to tell more about his relationship with Sherlock. "See? He just sums up the entire case to one sentence, and the rest is about you." 

Sherlock was floating somewhere in the space between properly awake and nearly asleep, feeling drugged and heavy, too worn out to entertain the fear whispering around him. 

" _Was_ ," he breathed, lips quirked in a small, sad smile, "w-was about me. I'll n-never be that to h-h-him again. He's t-t-terrified of m-me. He's an-angry with m-me e-even when...e-even when he's t-trying to tell m-me he's n-not." 

The smile faded away as he recalled the day John had stayed with him, crawled up into the bed and held Sherlock as one would hold a wild animal waking from sedation. John had been trying to mentally escape his proximity to Sherlock. 

It had been horrible for him. 

"G-Greg is a good m-man. J-John...John w-will be o-okay-y with him." He nodded then, his lower lip caving in for a moment as loss settled over him, twisting the sharp point of regret deep into his heart. "Th-that blog is w-what I had. It will s-serve a g-g-good reference f-for me l-later when..." _when I'm so tired of alone I might go mad._

"W-will remember why...c-can't h-have an-anyone. N-not ever...e-ever again." 

Mycroft put his phone down and quit reading. 

"Sherlock what you are to take away from this experience is that you should always be open with people, not that you shouldn't get attached. That is the absolute wrong way to look at it." 

"Listen, you had something very special with John. I doubt it will ever be the same, but you two can make this work. Greg is a good man. He is helping John. But John was still lacking a sense of purpose. He needs you. You help him more than you know."

Sherlock shook his head. No, openness with other people was exactly the opposite of what he'd been taught his entire life. That could not be the answer. It couldn't be. "H-he would have l-left...he would have l-l-eft if I'd...he is n-not...he'd h-ave been r-repulsed w-with..." Sherlock drew in a sharp breath, trying to keep himself from completely falling apart. 

"J-John n-n-needs me gone," he whispered, deeply wishing there was more he could do. "I c-can't h-help him." 

Mycroft shook his head. "John cared about you so much. If you had told him how you felt, I doubt he would have been repulsed. It would have taken him some time, but I believe you two would have been a lovely couple." 

The word generally repulsed him, but John seemed to be good for Sherlock.

Sherlock took his hand away from Mycroft and pressed it over his eyes, the statement stealing his breath away. If there was anything he did not need, it was a reminder of what he could have had were he a braver man. It was now completely lost and far too late. 

"I'm s-sorry...I'm...I'm an i-idiot I should...should h-have done. I should -have done. I r-ruined...I should h-have done."

Mycroft shook his head.

"You aren't an idiot. In a way, this is my fault. Observed as a mold for your 'don't get attached' ways. It's my fault. I should have taught you better." 

Mycroft meant that as both the regret that he ever told Sherlock to disconnect, and that he failed to secure it into his mind enough that Sherlock never got attached to John in the first place. 

Sherlock held still, keeping his hand pressed over his eyes and breathing as controlled as he could manage. "W-wasn't you," he breathed, shivering hard and feeling weak and sick, "I b-break-k everything...e-everything and...and..." he shook his head and groaned as pain whispered up along his spine, "d-d-oesn't mat-t-ter, it's r-ruined alr-ready. H-he left m-m-me in tears. I m-made him cr-cry. Couldn't e-even manage a p-proper goodbye." 

Mycroft clicked his tongue and spoke softly. 

"He was crying because he thought you were being hurt, and that he was the one hurting you. He was confused. It's not your fault. Please, just listen to me." 

Mycroft brushed his fingers over Sherlock's cheeks. 

"My is here. You are very safe with me, and you are not hurting John." 

Sherlock leaned his head into his brother's hand, dragging his palm away from his eyes and resting it in his exhaustion over his own chest, gripping at the gown they had him wrapped in, bone weary. He looked back up at his brother, studying his face for a moment before letting his eyes fall shut once more. He was too worn thin to manage any longer, sleep demanding his attention. His body slowly went lax, tension bleeding away with his consciousness, leaving him breathing unsteady and limp under his brother. 

Mycroft quoted John's blog to him as Sherlock fell asleep and nearly fell apart once he went limp. Mycroft took deep, panicked breaths for a few seconds as his calm threatened to bleed away. Tears filled his eyes as he dropped his forehead down on Sherlock's shoulder and gripped him tight. 

_Deep breaths._ Mycroft tried to go through his mental processes again, but only managed to turn the gears just a few degrees before the mechanism began to grind and halt. 

"I'm sorry, 'Lock."

Mycroft allowed himself a few moments to feel without restraint. He began to shake, arms wrapped around Sherlock, as if holding him tight would repay for the damage he had done. Mycroft's eyes filled with tears and he trembled with the force of silent sobbing. 

The rub with ICU was that it was never, ever private. Sherlock's unique setup made it more so, but the glass walls and open nature of a floor dedicated to intensive care left Mycroft's moment easily viewed. Miller turned his back and texted Paul, deeply worried to see the elder brother struggling so. It was beyond understandable, but thus far Mycroft had kept himself composed. They needed someone else to help with Sherlock. Mycroft was far too taxed. 

Twenty minutes later, after a few words with Miller in the hall, Paul tapped lightly at the door frame. "Mycroft," he whispered into the dimly lit room, announcing himself before stepping in further. 

"How is your brother?"

Mycroft took a moment to composed himself. What he was feeling was logical, reasonable, but not constructive at the time. "He's sleeping." 

Paul moved closer to Sherlock, feigning a look at the man in the bed while truly sizing up Mycroft. He pulled up a chair and settled down in it, listening to Sherlock's pained, uneven breathing and the effect it was having on his brother. 

"I have medication for you, if you'll take it. You are in an exceedingly difficult position here. This reaction from your brother is not unexpected. Greg informs that John is having a terribly difficult time as well. Sherlock is doing well, all things considered." 

"Yes, medication. I need that. Sherlock is greatly distressed by something that actually happened. If it was all in his mind, I would be less worried. But he is upset that John is distancing himself, which is actually occurring. He will only become more aware of it as time goes on, even when Moran fades from his view." 

Mycroft curled tighter around Sherlock and kept his eyes on his brother. 

Paul got up and poured Mycroft a small cup of water, returning and offering it to Mycroft with medication for his nerves. He then returned to his chair, staring at the both of them. 

"Sherlock has yet to begin any sort of psychological healing from this process, Mycroft. He's still physically recovering. Despite this, he seems to have come to terms with the loss of John. It pains him, but he accepts it. I don't know if that loss is permanent, but even if it is, I think he has a chance. John is...on his way to happy. That is what Sherlock had been after all along, was it not?"

Mycroft had in his head an ideal outcome for this. Sherlock and John would be living in the same flat, with Greg one below it. 

"He shouldn't accept that John is lost! That is how he will be happy. He needs John. I need to put them back together. Sherlock was happy with John before, and he can be again. He was never happy like that once before in his entire adult life." 

Mycroft was exposing portions of his thought process that Paul had not been privy to earlier. He was glad of his choice to offer medication to Mycroft, nodding his understanding as he tried to settle the man. 

"Mycroft, you can no more put them back together than Greg, who's been working diligently with John this entire time. If John and Sherlock are going to have a relationship, it will be up to them. We are not able to force them together. All that can be done is what's being done. John cares for Sherlock's well being, but I do not believe John has ever missed him. Perhaps with time, they can find some sort of...friendship." 

Mycroft nodded and put his hands over his head. "Yes. Yes, alright. My apologies, that was illogical of me. I am under stress and not functioning as well as I should." He sat up a bit and released his hold on Sherlock. 

"I need to get back to work. If he wakes, tell him where I've gone, won't you?"

Paul was honestly surprised to see that Mycroft was leaving again that same day. 

"Alright, Mycroft. I'll tell him. You've no need to apologize, and you are functioning admirably under the sheer pressure you are under." 

He stood up as well, looking down on Sherlock who appeared properly out. 

"I'll get him strapped back in, you don't have to do that. Please try and sleep at some point, and don't forget to eat." 

"I can't lose my position," Mycroft stated, more to himself than Paul. "I am not handling this well, but I am doing better than most would. I need time to rest and eat in privacy. This entire ordeal has made me more emotionally vulnerable than I am accustomed to, which is influencing my decision making. I need time to think. I will be back tomorrow, or whenever he needs me."

Paul said nothing more to Mycroft, nodding and sensing the man's deep need to justify his actions -even when warranted- to himself. 

"That's fine, Mycroft. Tomorrow. I'll tell him you'll be back tomorrow." 

He took hold of Sherlock's loose wrist and moved it back to Sherlock's side, buckling him back down and tightening the lines as the staff had discussed. Sherlock had significantly harmed himself struggling, and therefore would not be allowed to again. 

"We'll take care of him. You go get some rest."

Mycroft have Sherlock one last kiss to the forehead that lingered for quite some time. "I'll be back, 'Lock." 

With a heavy heart, Mycroft turned and left the building. The gravitational constant, multiplied by his mass and Sherlock's mass, all divided by the distance between them, was not nearly enough to account for the pull he felt to his little brother in that moment. 

Sherlock's sleep grew fretful as soon as Mycroft left the room. Paul shook his head and called in Miller, and the pair of him settled Sherlock into more effective restraints. Paul offered to keep watch, settling down in the corner of the room, honestly feeling for the Holmes brothers in a way he rarely did for anyone that served as a patient. Sherlock spent time down hard, not moving at all, only to attempt waking, physically struggling against restraints that had no give at all, slipping into an unconscious panic as his breathing would go wild and sweat would break along his brow, making him cry in his sleep as Miller or Paul would put the full mask over his face to supplement his oxygen. Miller would often speak softly to Sherlock, where Paul kept quiet, willing the man into a deeper sleep. They were not medicating him, but it seemed that Sherlock's mind had simply hit its limit, keeping him forcibly down.


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two chapters today! The semester has started so updates may be less frequent, but I will get to them as regularly as I can!
> 
> -Amphi

Three hours ticked by before he texted Greg, curious to see how John was doing. Greg was sitting up in his bed, John curled next to him, the pair of them watching the telly when the text came in. He looked over to John before leaning in and gently kissing his temple. 

"How are you feeling," he asked quietly. 

John was curls in on himself and leaning on Greg. He began to accept that this room was not actively going to hurt him, but he wasn't quite sure it was as safe as the facility. 

"I'm alright," he spoke quietly and nuzzled his face down. "I'm still a little worried, but the medicine helps. It's fuzzy." John blinked slowly and his entire body seemed to shrink down into the mattress. 

"And my brain is all tired but my body isn't and I can't sleep."

Greg nodded, easing down with John and holding out his arms. 

"Come here? That sounds miserable, maybe if I rub your back it will help you rest?" 

What John was describing sounded exhausting and incredibly uncomfortable. He'd answer Paul later, once he had John more settled. 

"You're doing really, really well John. I'm sorry this is hard."

John crawled willingly into Greg's arms and relaxed down against him. His feet and legs twitched occasionally with nervous restlessness, but attempting to keep one thought going was like trying to knit unspun wool. 

"I'm tired but I can't fall asleep because I'm scared and awake."

Greg covered one of John's ears with the flat of his palm, ensuring the other was down over his heart. He trailed his free hand down John's back, knowing exactly where to avoid, and where to focus his physical touches after so much time. He attempted to call to mind anything he knew rote that was long enough to recite to John. 

With a self-depreciating smile, he began to speak, quoting back a book that his children demanded constantly, the words flowing off his tongue in the same melodic pitch and sway one utilizes when reading to children. 

"The Mole had been working very hard all the morning, spring- cleaning his little home. First with brooms, then with dusters; then on ladders and steps and chairs, with a brush and a pail of whitewash; till he had dust in his throat and eyes, and splashes of whitewash all over his black fur, and an aching back and weary arms. Spring was moving in the air above and in the earth below and around him, penetrating even his dark and lowly little house with its spirit of divine discontent and longing..."

John began to settle as soon as Greg's voice rumbled in his chest. His eyes slid shut and his legs stopped their twitching. With a slow exhale he began to accept that he was here, in Greg's home, and it was a safe place to be. At one of the natural pauses in the story, John turned his head to the side and kissed the palm of Greg's hand that had rested on his ear. 

"I love you," he muttered gratefully, then went back to silence again.

Greg carried on reciting, carrying John through the first book of Wind in the Willows, glossing over bits he'd forgotten but getting the story across nonetheless. John's little movement had made him smile, and he personally relaxed as he found his method to be soothing to John. He'd lay with him like that for as long as John needed, doing his best to calm and soothe him.

John dropped off into a shallow sleep several times, which was by no means unrestful, and each time he woke was comforted by Greg's presence. He would open his eyes, mutter something kind and grateful, press a kiss wherever he could reach, and relax back down.

Greg ended up dropping off after nearly two hours of quietly reciting, fingers constantly moving over John's back, settling him down. He dozed for nearly an hour before thirst got the better of him. 

He slid his fingers over the side of John's face, whispering softly to him. 

"John, love, I've got to get up a minute." 

He stretched there on his back, shifting to work out the kinks in his spine. 

"Are you ready to try out of bed for a little while? Maybe see the birds?" He needed to get a bit of ice down John as well, start in with the food and water. It all could come as a package instead of finding comfort one thing at a time. 

John stirred and stretched his stiff arms over his head and extended his legs as far as they would go. With a bleary rub of his eyes, John sat up and leaned over Greg. "Okay. I'm alright. Just a bit wound up, I guess." John crawled over Greg to the other side of the bed and stood up beside it.

"Can I watch the birds from the window for a bit? There's no walls, and it's stupid, but it's making me nervous." John twisted the fabric of his shirt between his fingers and kept his eyes down.

Greg got himself up and pulled John into a slow, gentle embrace. He swept his fingers through John's hair and pressed a soft kiss to John's cheek. 

"Of course. I'll just open up the drapes. If you'd rather not watch the birds, we can watch telly on the sofa. It's all fine."

Each and every time John was shown such genuine affection and care from Greg, it soothed the charred place in his mind that Moriarty had branded his initials into. "Let’s watch from the window. I like birds."

Greg took the next few minutes leading John out and pushing the sitting room furniture about so that a large, plush chair faced the window. He clicked on the radio, calm, upbeat instrumentals quietly filling the silence. He put John in the chair and draped John's favored blanket over him, pressing a kiss to the side of his head and offering only one blue tablet at the moment. The little sparrows were out on the sill, easily viewed, chirping and hopping about. 

"Give me a moment. I'll just be in the lav and then right back. Doors are all locked, you are safe. I love you." He swept his knuckles down the side of John's face and hurried off to relieve himself and wash up, returning in less than five minutes. 

He puttered into the kitchen and grabbed himself a coffee, brewing a bit of tea for John. "I've got bread for those little birds if you ever feel like feeding them," he called out from the kitchen, starting to talk about nothing at all simply to let John know where he was. When the tea was ready, he dropped a bit of ice in it to bring it down from steaming, putting the warm liquid only half way full in a large mug. 

He returned to John's side with it, sitting down next to him and putting his coffee on the table before turning to face John. "I've brought you tea. It's not hot, only warm. You don't have to drink it, I just want you to try it, see if it has any appeal. Here look," he said swiftly, trying to make this as safe and calm for John as possible, "I've brought you a straw, and a spoon, and you can try either way. It's the tea you fancied when you lived at Baker Street. You've gone far too long without a cuppa." 

While John wasn't completely afraid while he was alone, he could acutely feel the distance and was relieved when Greg got back. 

The idea of tossing bread to the birds was extremely pleasant, and he even remarked that while he wasn't eating, it would involve handling food and could help him work through his fear. "I'd like to give them bread, but maybe not now. Maybe tomorrow, once I'm used to everything."

The tea made him nervous. He had burned himself minority on hot tea before, as almost everyone has, and had a bit of a nasty habit of drinking before it was cool and getting little burns on the inside of his mouth. It wasn't ever anything to worry about, but he was hesitant now. John took the warm cup in his hands and tried to judge how hot it would be by feeling the mug. 

"You're sure it's not hot?" He reached for the spoon and stirred. It wasn't steaming, but he was still irrationally nervous. 

Greg was wildly encouraged that John had not fallen into instant panic. John's response to the bread was wonderful, and here he sat nervously stirring the tea, not sobbing for mercy. Greg smiled and leaned over to John, whispering, "I promise it's not hot, just pleasantly warm," as he dipped his clean little finger right into the liquid to demonstrate. He drew his hand away and licked the sweat liquid off his finger. John typically bypassed sugar, but Greg figured his body was likely to react to something overly sweet better than something bitter. 

He pressed a kiss to John's temple. 

"I love you, I'd never hurt you." 

John put the spoon in the tea for enough time to allow it to adopt the temperature of the tea, then drew it out. He touched it to his palm first, then his lips, and decided that by all laws of nature the tea couldn't be very hot. He took a small spoonful and was instantly both relieved and frightened. It wasn't hot, which was good, but it was still liquid, and still unsettled him. 

"It's not hot, not hurting, but it's still like water, and I-" John pulled in a deep breath. With his eyes closed, he reached one hand blindly to Greg. "Will you talk to me? Tell me that the water isn't bad? I need to hear it. It will help."

Greg smiled at John and reached out, setting the flat of his palm between John's shoulder blades and speaking soft and steady. 

"Water isn't bad, John. It's alright to be near water, and to touch water, and it's very good to enjoy water and the things water does for us. You're safe, and I'm with you, and that tea is delicious. You have control over that tea, how you drink it, and how much. It's good. The water isn't bad. It won't hurt you. It doesn't have to be scary. See, I've water in my coffee and it's just fine," he added, taking a sip from his own mug in point. John was doing remarkably and Greg's heart swelled with pride. "I'm so proud of you." 

John continued with his tiny spoonfuls of the tea and used Greg's voice to drown out the sense of impending agony he got when drinking. He took a moment to rest and recover his mind, wherein he gave Greg a small smile. 

"It does taste good, I think." 

He paused then, and took another spoonful. Yes, it definitely did taste good. Despite the fear, despite the aggravation he got from his own timid mind, and despite the previous training, John had found some aspect of it that was good. He broke into a large grin and stared at the mug. If there was something good about it, then he could work for that, instead of just forcing himself to go through the motions. John took another spoonful and noted that some of the hesitation had left his now steady hand. 

Greg could not help how widely he was smiling, so incredibly thrilled with John he could scarcely stand it. John's hand had steadied and he looked to be _enjoying_ what Greg had offered him. He set his own mug down as his hands began to shake, swiftly sweeping the back of his hand across his eyes to clear away the blur. It was such a small step, but it was so encouraging that the release of worried tension Greg had been carrying about for months on end was nearly nauseating in it's overwhelming rush, leaving him shaking and teary in its wake. 

"You are so incredible," Greg said roughly, staring at John in proud adoration, feeling incredibly foolish for his reaction. "Do you like it? Should I...well, you can have that whenever you want. I can make more at any time. Whatever you want, I'm so damn proud of you. Sorry I'm just blathering about over here, I just...Christ Almighty it's so...yeah so...I'm just so proud of you. God, I'm proud of you." 

It was as if a great weight was lifted up off John's shoulders. He had worn heavy equipment before, and taking it off was always a relief that left him feeling much lighter. To know that water wouldn't always be bad, that it could be pleasant and happy at times, was almost more hope at once than he could handle. John took another spoonful, then another, and found himself spurred on by the desire to taste the sweetness again rather than the dread of disappointing Greg. 

"If it tastes good," John began in an effort to articulate his breakthrough, "then there is something about it I can work for. It won't always be bad. I'll be free from this!" John switched the spoon for the straw. He was still nervous about drinking, but it had faded to a pestering hum in the back of his mind rather than loud shouting. 

"I like the taste. I actually like it. It's good. I-" John dashed the tears from his eyes and relief shook him so hard he nearly dropped his mug. 

"I'll be free from this."

Greg moved then, completely overcome in the unexpected moment. Hope had so often viciously turned on him, but here he sat listening to John finally, Jesus _finally_ realize there was more to life than existing and enduring. He reached out, wrapping his hand around John's mug to keep him steady, the other hand sliding around John's back and pulling him in close. 

"You will," he agreed, his voice thick with emotion as he held John to him, dizzy with relief, "you will, oh my god, I love you John. You will be free of it. You will." 

John cried freely onto Greg's shoulder, both from the pain he had endured and the hope he had just been shown. 

"Thank you," John breathed and held Greg close. 

"Thank you. I owe this to you. You are the reason I am able to do this. You are the reason I am succeeding. I owe this to you. God, Greg, thank you, thank you so much. I wouldn't have found this if you didn't keep having me try the water. I love you." John let go for a moment and took another small sip with the straw. He still had reservations against filling his mouth, but was able to concentrate on how good the tea tasted instead of how nervous it made him. 

When he reached the bottom, John was relieved as always, but overjoyed at his progress. "Thank you! Oh, god, I love you. You're wonderful. You're amazing." 

Greg drew back when John went to finish his tea. _Finish his tea_. It was such a strange thing to think, to believe. He dashed his hands over his face, trying to clear away the obvious mess he'd become. John was whispering his gratitude and it was more than Greg had ever expected. Affirmations that he'd not been cruel in his insistence that John keep drinking water. He forced himself to get a grip, breathing slow and deep. It was so blindingly relieving to hear John say as much. 

"Sweet things it is, John," Greg whispered, smiling brilliantly at the man, so overwhelmed he wasn't sure what to do with himself. He'd made the tea on a whim and it had worked. He was so accustomed to failure that he'd steeled himself for holding a sobbing John and begging forgiveness, and here he'd been given hope. 

"We have to write this on your calendar." 

John nodded happily and set the mug down. He wasn't quite to the point of asking for more, but he was quite sure he eventually would. 

"Let's change some of the water to tea, too. I like the tea better. I think because it tastes good, it distracts me from being afraid of it." Keeping hold of Greg's hand, John stood with more confidence than he had before and went back to the bedroom where the calendar hung. 

"Would it make sense that I would be better at eating things that taste good too?" 

John wasn't quite sure of his own mind, but that seemed logical. 

"To distract me from being afraid? I don't know, and you get to decide, but the tea is good, and that helped."

Greg nodded, having followed John in a happy daze, almost not believing this turn of events they'd worked so damn hard for. "I'll feed you cakes and sweets if that's what it takes, carrots can hang, whatever you like. We will try something sweet when you are ready, sweeter than the apple sauce. You don't seem so keen on it. Bit of ice cream maybe." 

He so deeply wanted to contact Mycroft and tell him the good news, but he was hesitant to inform the man of John's comfort while it sounded as though Sherlock was suffering. The thought was a damper to his celebratory mood, so instead he texted Paul, letting him know what was on. 

He wrapped his arms around John, pressing his chest gently to John's back, watching him with the calendar before tapping the picture he drew of John that was attached to it. 

"You see? This is who you are. Brilliant John, my brilliant John." 

John looked around until he found a pen on the desk. He squinted at it for a moment, and wondered if it was the same pen, or just the same kind. Either way, Mycroft's men had been thorough. John took the calendar down and pulled Greg to sit next to him on the bed. He put a check by the water for that day, but wrote over it in large letters 'TEA'. 

"We're making so much progress. Or at least, my brain is. I'm not worried about this," John pointed at the next day, which required him to drink a full glass. 

"Because it can be tea, and it won't hurt as bad."

The picture beside the calendar was beautiful to John, and in that moment, with the wings of hope lifting him up to soar ruins his troubles, he honestly felt like the person in the drawing. 

"I see it now, a bit."

Greg smiled to himself, incredibly pleased with all of this. He'd not realized how desperately he needed a breath of hope. He stretched, again dashing his hands across his eyes. 

"That's brilliant, John," he said honestly, staring down at the calendar. All the 'Sherlock's' listed across the month dampened his spirits though, and he pulled John back into his arms in a moment of helplessness for Sherlock's situation. 

He hugged John close, trying to come up with a solution, anything at all that could help. Sherlock was alone in hospital. If John's reaction had been this, with Greg with him constantly, able to walk and move, he wondered if Sherlock was at all lucid. Mycroft had installed cameras, and Greg had seen them, but they were all clearly off. Sherlock was terrified of John on screen. For now, they wouldn't help. 

He tipped his head down to the top of John's and breathed in deep. 

"I love you," he whispered, again turning his focus to the man he could help. 

The absence of pain and oppressive hopelessness was euphoric, and John suddenly wrapped his arms around Greg and squeezed with all his might. 

"Oh, thank you! You don't know what this means to me. Or maybe you do. Its just, now it's not all so bad. I won't struggle through water forever."   
John kissed Greg's cheek happily and touched their foreheads together. His eyes were shining with glee and hope, his mouth turned up and open slightly in a happy grin, and his whole visage glowing. 

"I know it will get better now. I see the sun."

Greg smiled back at John as a tear rolled down his cheek, relief making his knees weak. One day at a time, one step at a time. If they could get John's legs under him, perhaps whatever was happening to Sherlock could be undone. He had to leave it for now. 

Greg swept a bit of John's hair back from his ears and spoke quietly, overwhelmingly proud of him. "I'm so glad. I'm so, so glad. It will get better, and I think much faster now that you can feel the warmth of it. We are home, and it's going to be alright. It's going to be more than alright, it's going to be grand, John. It will."

With complete trust in Greg's words, John looked down at his calendar with pride and hope. "I can do this," he affirmed, and for the first time in a long while, he meant it. 

John continued for most of the day in relative comfort, with only the occasional unsettling thought that was quickly dissipated by Greg. He was growing content in the home due to the breakthrough, and the day was peaceful from then on.


	19. Chapter 19

Meanwhile, Mycroft's mobile buzzed with a direct call from Miller. 

Mycroft was in his study, attempting again to edit several drafts of a document he was supposed to be presenting in just a week. It wasn't that international affairs were particularly boring, but his mind was wandering in a way it hadn't since he was a young child. 

The call startled and worried him, and he answered before the first ring had silenced. "What is it?"

Miller was just outside the glass walls of Sherlock's room, making eye contact with Paul before he started speaking to Mycroft. 

"Sherlock," he began, not exactly sure how to explain what was going on, "has been awake for the last three hours. He was lucid for the first twenty minutes, asking after you but mostly calm. He's ah, he's hallucinating fairly severely but remains..." what, _calm_? Calm wasn't the word. Miller dragged a hand over his face and fished for a proper descriptive, "mostly quiet unless approached. He's overdue for his medications by an hour, and no amount of coaxing from Paul is helping. I don't believe he even hears us, really. I am prepared to go in and dose him, but wanted to make you aware of the situation first. We've not seen him like this. He's immobile, so he's not a danger to himself." 

Paul kept to the corner where he'd been sitting, quietly speaking to the sweat-soaked man, repeating to Sherlock where he was and what was happening. Sherlock simply stared at the opposite end of the room, red, glassy eyes unfocused, lips moving without sound. His hands constantly tested the restraints, though he clearly looked to have no hope in finding give. 

Mycroft swore under his breath and checked the cameras. 

"Yes, I see. I suggest medicating him, but it is up to you. I can..." Mycroft looked back at his document, and shook his head. It would simply have to wait. He could even have someone else translate it, which he rarely did to avoid inaccuracies and accidental connotations to words. 

"I'll come, if you think it would help.”

Miller shook his head, looking up at the camera and back to Sherlock. "I'll dose him, Mycroft, I've only called as his reaction to being within arm's reach of anyone is...it's explosive. He nearly threw himself into arrest the last time even Paul tried to reach his lines. I know you are quite busy and I do hate to call, I did not want to do this without your permission. I can't fully sedate him. I'm not sure how long it will take him to calm down, and this risks his heart. It's up to you, it is not my place to make that sort of judgement call." 

Mycroft didn't want Sherlock to believe he was in Moran's care any longer. He closed his laptop and stood, grabbing his coat and making for the door. 

"I'll come give it to him myself, then, but I can not stay this time. I've got policy to tend to. Sherlock always reminded me not to start wars. It's bad for the traffic."

Miller looked up to Paul and then back to Sherlock. "Mycroft, if I may, I doubt you'll be able to do much for him in a brief visit. We can dose him if you are pressed for time. I was only calling as a courtesy. Paul and I can manage this."

Mycroft paused in the doorway. He brought up the video feed of Sherlock, lying still, lips moving without sound. It depressed him instantly. 

"If you're sure there is nothing I can do, then go ahead and do it yourself."

Miller drew in a slow, deep breath and nodded, "Alright, Mycroft," he replied before hanging up the line. He'd hoped that Mycroft would be available, but it looked as though there truly was nothing for it. 

He shook his head at Paul and went about gathering the few syringes of medication they'd need to give to Sherlock, quietly walking in the room. Paul was still speaking softly to Sherlock, telling him again and again where he was and who was with him. Miller looked over his shoulder to assure the crash cart was just outside the door if Sherlock needed it, and made himself approach. 

Sherlock's reaction was swift and extreme. 

His breathing shifted from the short, clipped breaths he'd been taking since sliding out of lucidity, down to wild chaos. His muscles strained as he fought with all he had against the straps holding him down, staring at Miller with such horror that it made the physician stop in his tracks. Miller was well seasoned, but something of the nature of Sherlock's panic got right under his skin. 

"Sherlock, you're safe," he said quietly, the words drowned out as Sherlock began to scream, trembling violently, staring at Miller's hands as though Miller was going to take his skin off then and there. 

It had been done to Sherlock before, which made the situation all the more difficult. 

"Pl-" Sherlock began, gagging and scrambling to the best of his ability to get away, hardly making any progress, "N- d-don't-" he screamed again, the sound dying down to horrified sobs, using every bit of strength he possessed to fight the restraints. 

Miller forced himself to move forward as Sherlock screamed again, nearly blacking out, his heart tripping over itself. Miller swiftly pushed the medications, loathing that Sherlock's pain medicine had to be administered so slowly. He was completely at a loss as to what to do to help him. 

Sherlock stuttered and tripped over clipped efforts to beg mercy, blacking out for ten to fifteen seconds at a time before snapping awake, starting right back oblivious that he'd lost consciousness. 

Miller finally stepped away from him with the last of the medications were given, keeping an eye on Sherlock's chaotic heart rhythm while Paul tried to talk Sherlock down. Sherlock was soaked through as though doused in water, in desperate need of a bedding change and washing. Neither of them were going to go for that at the moment. 

Mycroft was in his chair, head in his hands. 

He wasn't looking at the screen anymore. 

The image was tearing at him and he was now glad that he had the audio muted. Jesus, it was painful to watch. Mycroft had his eyes closed, trying to deny what was happening. This behavior from Sherlock would be common for the next few days. He needed to get back to work. Mycroft minimized the video and stared at his document.

In the end, Sherlock’s medical team had to call a code. 

Sherlock had worked himself into such a frenzy that his heart could not endure it, throwing him into a severe rhythm that left him unconscious and poorly profusing. It only took one electric shock and a bit of medication to push him back where he needed to be. Sherlock's taxed heart fell back into line, beating on a rhythm that the cardiologists were satisfied with. Miller sent a text to his brother to keep him informed. 

_We had to run a code, but he's stable now. Going to clear the room and dim the lights, see if that helps keep him calm. Do you want me to carry on with these sorts of updates, or simply notify you if there is a medical emergency that cannot be contained?_

Sherlock was in tears, his chest aching, staring at the wall. Moran had left him, but he'd be back. He always came back. 

Mycroft's hands were dug into his hair as he watched in sheer terror as they shocked Sherlock back to life. Stress and panic made his heart rate spike and his hands shake. 

"Oh, god, please," he pleaded, and collapsed into his chair when Sherlock's heart began to beat again. 

When he was able to respond, he did so, but had to correct several errors before sending. 

_Updates of the current nature are appreciated. Does he need me?_

Miller read the text with a bit of surprise. It seemed rather obvious that Sherlock needed his brother. 

_I'm sure he'll wear himself out. I'm not sure how he's even conscious at the moment._

Mycroft walked to the door, then back to his chair, then to the door again. Never in his life had he been this indecisive. 

_I am tired. I don't believe I should come. I have work. I need to get this done. But if you believe he needs me desperately, I will come._   
Miller ran a hand through his hair and looked through the glass at Sherlock. He spoke softly to Paul. "Mycroft cannot come," he whispered, deeply wanting to sedate Sherlock, "we should call cardiology up here for a consult on inducing coma, I think. They're unlikely to sign off, but Jesus we have to try something. He can’t carry on like this." 

Paul sighed and slipped his hand into his pocket. He was at a loss. Sherlock Holmes responded to two people on earth, and neither of them would come. "We can try, at the very least we can try." 

Miller texted Mycroft again. 

_That's alright, Mycroft. We are going to see what cardiology thinks of inducing coma. We'll take care of him, you do what you need to do._

Mycroft typed slowly, deliberately, to keep himself on task. This needed to be finished so he could get on with the weeks of work he had been putting on hold. 

_I'll be back tomorrow. I just need to work through the night to catch up, then I can stay most of the day tomorrow._

Miller responded immediately. 

_Then I'll cancel a consult. Hopefully he'll sleep._

Though, of course, that was not to be for many hours. Sherlock fluctuated between terrified shivering and bouts of screaming, occasionally simply crying as he responded to questions no one asked him. They kept the lights dim and left him alone, keeping watch but unable to do anything more for him. 

Somewhere around two in the morning Sherlock finally dropped off into a dead sleep, his pulse and breathing pitching low, slowing down enough to have Miller posted directly outside his room. Sherlock was exhausted, and his body trying to compensate for the extreme stress. Paul dutifully waited with Miller, watching their patient, willing him to make it through the night without intervention. 

Mycroft worked through the night and morning. He drank his tea cold, as he had forgotten about it for quite some time, and got in the car at eight in the morning. 

His work was caught up, and he was able to spend the day with Sherlock, providing he worked all night the next night as well. 

_I'm on my way._

Miller had taken advantage of Sherlock's deep state of sleep to go in and dose him in the night and then again just an hour before Mycroft's text. 

Sherlock was awake, his heart rate flung from the extreme low back up to overly fast, again staring at the wall, lips silently moving. His wrists were rubbed raw, slightly bleeding from where he would not stop attempting to free himself, and he was sticky from how severely he'd been sweating, but in relation to the previous two days, he was calm. 

Mycroft arrived at the hospital and walked directly to Sherlock's room. He went to Sherlock's side, unclasped his better arm, placed it over his chest and kissed him on the forehead.   
"Hello, 'Lock, it's My. I'm here to make sure you are feeling alright. How are things?" 

Mycroft spoke calmly and kissed Sherlock's hand. "I'm here. It's safe."

Paul watched in clinical interest as Sherlock failed to respond to his brother, taking notes on their interaction. Sherlock flinched when touched, his heart rate spiking, but otherwise it was as though he'd no awareness of being spoken to or handled. 

Sherlock eventually snatched his hand away, curling it tight to his chest and starting to cry again. His eyes never focused, and his lips never stopped moving, shivering now as his awareness slowly began to sharpen on the room around him. 

Mycroft stumbled for something to do. He knew tapping worked, and decided to start from there. 

_It is My. I am here to help you. Please look at me._

Sherlock failed to respond as Mycroft attempted to reach him. He was deep, deep into his mind, retreated to the furthest spaces where he'd once housed Moriarty and the things that terrified him. Taxed to the limit, he'd run for the only safety available to him. 

_The palace was in shambles and the walls thin and weak. Eventually the tapping made its way down to him, the floorboards groaning and the brick caving in. Sherlock screamed, pressing back against the padded walls, sobbing in desperation as his last corner to hide in was threatened._

_Despite his panicked grip on the walls, he was pushed upwards without use of the stairs, thrown abruptly back to the entrance room which now shook wildly, wind slicing through the cracks as the grand foyer was reduced to little more than a collapsing shack._

_The door cracked off its hinges, clattering to the rotted porch as the message came through, battering against his mind as effectively as Moran's crowbar. Fully expecting just that, Sherlock screamed in terrified defeat again, his free arm lifted up, fingers in his own hair, elbow guarding his face as he was forced from the protection of his mind, crying out in his hysteria, nearly cracking apart under the weight of fear._

Mycroft expected him to hate being dragged up to the surface, but he needed to come back and be aware. He was safe in his mind, but his mind wasn't safe. 

_It is My. My. I am Mycroft. Come back to me. I am safe. Moran is dead. Moriarty is dead. You are safe. Come back._

Mycroft held his breath and waited, arms around Sherlock now and eyes locked on his brother's. He needed this to work. 

Up and out of the shelter of his mind, the message was easily heard. Sherlock dragged in a breath as though he'd been released from underwater, eyes flying open. It took him all of a second to register his brother and another more before he had his arm around Mycroft's neck, dragging him in as close as possible. 

"My!" he cried out, sobbing desperately as he clung to his sibling, hardly able to manage a proper breath. He was tripping his monitors as panic and desperate relief tangled hard and unhinged in his chest, stressing his heart. 

"Yes!" Mycroft cried and hugged Sherlock. 

"It's me. I'm here for you. I'm so sorry I didn't come sooner. I'm here now. I'm here." 

Mycroft pressed himself against his baby brother and spoke softly to him. 

"I'm so glad to hear from you. I'm happy you are awake. How are you feeling? Is there anything you need? Water? Telly?"

Sherlock clung to his sibling as an anguished scream tore out of his throat. He struggled to fill his lungs again, bogged down in the wake of unrelenting fear. He gripped at Mycroft in his panic, sure that he would vanish as soon as his hold slipped, utterly terrified of losing him.

"Shh...It's alright. It's alright. I'm here. You're safe." Mycroft petted Sherlock's hair and spoke very gently. "I'm right here. I'm not going to leave. See?" 

Mycroft held Sherlock's hand as tightly as he could without injuring him. "I'm not leaving." 

Strength rapid bled out of Sherlock's muscles, leaving him holding to Mycroft with a trembling grip, awash in tears, his breathing stuttered and panicked. His gown had already been sticking to him, and was now nearly translucent as he sweated out his extreme stress, nearly delirious with it. 

"Pl-" he tried to speak through clenched teeth, stopping his effort as his expression fell, leaving him sobbing and incoherent. He was not safe, and the room was not safe, and Mycroft would be gone if he dared to fall asleep. He put all his energy in keeping hold of Mycroft's hand, nauseous with fear and exhaustion. 

Mycroft kissed Sherlock's forehead. "I'm here. You can do anything you want. You are safe and sound in my arms." 

He demonstrated by pulling Sherlock just a bit further towards him. 

"I'm keeping you safe. If you need anything, I'm here. I won't let them get you."

Sherlock fought sleep as long as he possibly could, desperate to maintain the safety of his brother's presence. Several times he tried to speak unsuccessfully, so weak that he could not vocalize.

He drifted off only to scramble awake as his grip went lax, crying out in fear, clutching at Mycroft until he was again pulled under. Over and over he did this, stretching the span of an hour before his heart had enough and slowed dramatically, forcing him properly unconscious.

Each time Sherlock woke, Mycroft would hold his hand tighter on his own shirt, helping him hold on in hopes that it would calm him. 

"I love you," he whispered over and over again. "You're safe. I've got you. Nothing is going to hurt you."

Miller was at the door when Sherlock finally dropped out, crossing the room and taking up Sherlock's wrist, manually keeping up with his falling pulse. 

"He can't keep on like the past thirty six hours, Mycroft. His heart's not healthy enough."

Sherlock was pitched down into oblivion, limp and motionless save his erratic breathing.

Mycroft took a deep breath before continuing. "I know. What would you like me to do? I can bring my laptop here and work when I can, if it would help for me to not leave as much."

Miller held quiet as he thought on it. Sherlock needed his own Greg Lestrade. The true tragedy of Sherlock and John’s seperation had only just become clear to he and Paul, who did not previously know them.

"If he'll even come lucid for you. He coded from fear today. _Fear_. I can't ethically carry on treating him like this. The fear he is experiencing is quite literally killing him." 

He gentled his tone, straying from professionalism to speak frankly to Mycroft. 

"I deeply hate to add to your stress, Mycroft. I do. I cannot imagine what life in your shoes feels like right now. We've still got to do something. His heart rate is fluctuating between the forties to just below two hundred. We either have to put him in sedation, which carries heavy risks, or keep him calm through most of the day."

Mycroft nodded. "Then I'll move in. I'll go home when I can to get fresh clothes, but for the most part, I'll conduct my business here when he is asleep, and keep him calm while he is awake. And if I'm called to a meeting...I'll just...I don't know. I'll figure something out." 

Mycroft didn't want to consider what his life would be like without sleep and proper rest, while caring for Sherlock and keeping up with a full time job. He would be breaking all his daily needs. 

Miller drew up a chair and sat beside Mycroft. "And sleep? Mycroft, if you break down I don't honestly know how we'll help Sherlock. Something must give. Surely there is a way to lighten your workload? Sick time, vacation, anything? That or let us sedate him. You're ready to fall over as it is."

"I've pulled a lot of strings already. I've played all the cards I had, pulled every favor I had and ones I didn't. For now, I can delegate and do as much as I possibly can in the short time I have to do it. I can drop my quality. Have other people translate. I don't need to do it all myself, though I used to think it was important that it was perfect. Now I couldn't care less." 

Mycroft's eyes were red rimmed and had dark circles under them from working through the night. 

Miller was deeply worried for the man. 

"Let us sedate him then, Mycroft. He can sleep for five days, let his heart rest up. As a physician I am concerned for your health." As a damned _person_ , he was deeply empathetic to the man, though he'd not mention it for Mycroft's sake.

"This is not sustainable. The risks to you must also be factored in."

"The risks to me are to be ignored," Mycroft said gently but firmly. 

"I will look after myself. I know my own limits. If you believe sedating him for five days will help him, then do it. But if you are only doing it for me, then don't."

Miller produced a file they'd put together on Sherlock's condition, with two pages of graph data on the risks to each of Sherlock's major systems in both the scenarios of keeping him awake and calm, and sedating him. 

"Granted, awake and panicked kicks the risks up if we don't sedate him. I've no idea if you'll even get him calmed down."

The results were deeply staggered per body system, with the most severe applying to his heart and lungs. 

"Then we will test it tomorrow. If I manage to keep him calm, I'll stay with him. If not, we'll sedate him." 

Mycroft got out of bed then and pulled up a chair to stand on. He took the space poster and fitted it between the slots on the acoustic ceiling above Sherlock's bed. 

"Hopefully I can manage that much."

Miller watched Mycroft and nodded. 

"Fair enough. I'm bringing you a proper cot and a hot meal, along with tablets for your nerves. All I ask is that you allow me to at least help maintain you physically while you are here."

"I would appreciate it, as the stress will most likely prompt me to make unwise decisions." He settled back down next to Sherlock, though he didn't lie down. 

"I need to make a quick run back to my house at some point. When would you suggest it?"

Miller looked to Sherlock and back to Mycroft. "Last he did this he was down hours, so now, I suppose." 

He pulled up Sherlock's chart, debating giving him more pain killer to keep him down. Sherlock's heart rate was swiftly becoming a barometer for how deeply he was out, and his pulse was still troubling low. 

"He's down rather hard."

"Then I will go now. I won't be long. Call me if he wakes." Mycroft got his things and left the room. He got back to his house quickly and packed for two days. 

When he arrived at the hospital once more, not more than forty five minutes had passed, most of which had been commute. 

Miller was just ringing Mycroft as Sherlock began to cry. He'd woken not two minutes before Miller picked up the phone, eyes sweeping the room clearly in search of his brother, his entire expression caving as he spotted Miller. He flinched back hard as he began sobbing, fear tearing across his chest.

Mycroft entered the room and rushed to Sherlock's side. 

"Hey, 'Lock, I'm here. Look at me." 

Mycroft took Sherlock's hands in his, tied as they were, and kissed Sherlock's forehead. "I'm here. It's My."

Sherlock gripped back at Mycroft, whimpering in relief, the nature of his crying shifting from fear to exhausted reassurance. "My," he whispered, squeezing Mycroft's hands before dropping right back down to sleep.  
Miller spoke softly, "He's only just woken." He had arranged the cot, which was waiting, and ordered a proper meal to be catered in for him.

The on and off nature of Sherlock's consciousness was disconcerting to Mycroft. 

"I can see that," he muttered and looked up at the ceiling. Surely Moran had never had space posters. Maybe it would help. Mycroft pulled up John's blog on his phone and waited for some sort of fallout. 

Miller nodded and decided Mycroft likely needed space and rest. 

"I'm going to leave you two alone. I'll bring your food in when it arrives. Is there anything else I can do for you? If you push that cot over there is a lever on the underside. You can drop Sherlock's side rail and pair the beds flush together if that will make you more comfortable. He's not due for medication for another three hours-" he cut off as his phone vibrated. 

"Right, food is here, I'll be right back." 

Sherlock was completely still, breathing in the chaotic, clipped way he'd been doing since Mycroft first was forced to leave him, fear penetrating down into his sleep. 

Miller returned and set out a covered plate of food from the closest decent cafe, hot soup and good fruit, pared with protein options. He set out tablets for Mycroft to take for his nerves, and then stepped back. 

"If you need it, ask, and I'll do my best to get it for you Mycroft."

"Thank you, Miller. You have been a wonderful help to all of us." 

Mycroft lowered Sherlock's side rail and pushed the two beds together. He sat up on his own and ate the meal, though his eyes rarely left Sherlock. The minutes dragged on and Mycroft found himself reciting Shakespeare and Cicero or any damn thing to keep him occupied. 

Miller left the brother's in peace, sighing and rubbing a hand over the back of his neck. He grabbed a security guard walking by and spoke low and soft, asking that they please ensure little to no foot traffic came though. If Mycroft slept, Mark did not want it compromised. 

Sherlock was properly down hard, minutes slipping into hours, hardly moving. Were it not for the monitors, it would have been easy to mistake his condition. He seriously needed washing and a bedding change, but Miller decided sleep was the highest priority. Bathing him would likely terrify him, so if they were going to do so it would be while Sherlock was awake and hopefully able to understand what was happening. 

Mycroft drifted off to sleep about half an hour after he settled into bed. One hand was reached over and on Sherlock's shoulder, and he was sleeping on the very edge of his bed so he could be close when Sherlock woke. 

His dreams were sour and foul, but he did not stir. He was physically, mentally and emotionally exhausted, but there was little to be done about that.

Miller slipped back into Sherlock's room three hours later, quietly pushing meds and measuring vitals. Sherlock's heart rate was still very low, and his breathing rough and chaotic, but he was sleeping without sedation and that was decidedly a Good Thing. Miller quietly gathered up the trash from Mycroft's meal and left the men sleeping undisturbed. 

Sherlock made it until nearly nine that night, sleeping without moving for many hours, nearly triple the stretch he managed when left alone. He woke just as Miller was giving his evening medications, eyes snapping open, moving as though to jerk away. His limbs were caught caught up fast by the restraints. He could scream though, and that he did, the sound cracking in his raw throat, panic shooting his heart rate up well above one hundred. Miller put his hands up and backed away, deeply glad he'd managed to push all Sherlock's drugs before he came awake. 

Mycroft stayed asleep for most of the stretch. He only occasionally woke, once to use the restroom and a few others just to check on Sherlock. 

When Sherlock screamed, Mycroft woke with a start and scooted over to him. 

"'Lock! It's me!" He unclasped Sherlock's hand and placed it on his chest as was his custom and placed himself in Sherlock's line of sight. 

"It's My. I'm here."

Sherlock's head turned abruptly from looking over at Moran to the person touching him, snatching his hand away in fright, confusion fogging his focus. He brought his fingers to his lips, shaking terribly, curled in on himself like a child as he failed to respond to Mycroft. 

Mycroft started again with the tapping. He went on with the usual regiment of who he was, where Sherlock was, and a promise that he was safe.

"Come back to me, 'Lock. I love you. I'm right here."

Sherlock stared at Mycroft without recognition for a long time, trying to pull away from the tapping, deeply frightened and trying to scurry into his mind. There was nothing when he closed his eyes. No porch. No door. Just darkness and walls too high to climb, pushing him right back out. 

Slowly the scent of Mycroft reached him, shocking his heart and seizing up his lungs. His eyes shot open and he reached out, trying to pull himself closer to his sibling, trembling hard and drenched in pain. "My?"

Each time Sherlock recognized him, Mycroft was flooded with relief. 

"Yes, it's me. I'm here. God, I'm here for you, Sherlock. It's okay. Look up at the ceiling. We've brought you a poster to help you remember where you are."

He kissed the top of Sherlock's head. 

Sherlock grabbed hold of Mycroft and closed his eyes as his heart raced painfully. He was still incredibly confused, shivering fantastically as Moran whispered to him, rustling the hair over his ear. With a pathetic cry he let go of Mycroft and clapped his hand over his ear, shivering and digging his nails into the side of his head. 

"No, nononono," he breathed as his stomach turned, tears slowly clumping his lashes together.

Mycroft spoke loudly. "Sherlock, I am here. There is nobody else here. I will not let him hurt you. Listen to me, not to Moran. He is dead. I had him killed. He was a messy hit, remember? He died in pain." Mycroft pulled Sherlock into his lap and held his head over his chest so he could hear his heart. 

Miller moved forward, unclasping Sherlock's damaged arm to allow for the movement. Sherlock locked his arms around Mycroft, torquing his back in an effort to get closer, lighting pain up along nerve endings as he twisted. His hips and legs were still firmly held in place. Sherlock's grip in Mycroft's clothing was bloodless, making his arms tremble, the draft on his back terrifying though he'd never let go of Mycroft. If they were going to beat him, they'd have to do it like that. 

"Pl-please," he whispered desperately, not sure exactly what he was asking for, terror clouding his mind to an extreme. 

Mycroft nodded to Sherlock's plea, though he wasn't sure what was being asked. He held Sherlock close to his chest so he could hear his heartbeat. "I'm here. I love you. I love you. I've got you. My's got you." 

Mycroft felt better physically and mentally for having slept, but was still emotionally drained. He had made it a practice to keep drama out of his life, and dealing with it was a muscle long atrophied.

Sherlock held tight to the only source of safety he knew to be verifiably consistent, nearly out of his skin with fear.

"C-can...can w-we get...get f-free he'll..." Sherlock's heart rate pitched down suddenly, dragging him abruptly unconscious. Miller moved to his side, cranking up the oxygen and elevating the foot of the bed. 

"He's so worn down," Miller muttered under his breath, pushing cardiac support meds, fingers pressed to Sherlock's neck.

Sherlock came back up with a great, desperate breath, crying out in pain as he clutched at his chest. He lay limp and panting for a proper breath.

"Jesus," Mycroft muttered when Sherlock went limp. It was emotionally draining to know exactly why it would feel like if Sherlock suddenly dropped dead in his arms. That sudden stillness, the way his head lolled and his hands released Mycroft's shirt, all tore at Mycroft's heart. 

When he came back, Mycroft was always determined o be the first thing Sherlock saw, heard, smelled and felt. "I'm here, 'Lock. Right here."

Sherlock weakly reached out, wrapping his fingers loosely around Mycroft's wrist. He kept his eyes closed, breathing in swift, pained clips. Paul walked in, paged by Miller. He slowly sat down opposite Mycroft, watching Sherlock, whispering to Miller. 

"Is the breathing medical?"

Miller shrugged, "A bit, mostly just afraid of pain I suspect. Hurts after electric cardioversion, and it will be exacerbated when he breathes in deep."

Sherlock grimaced as he heard voices that did not belong to Mycroft. He tried to move closer to his brother, shaking hard despite the glaring fact that he had no energy left to spare. 

"My," he breathed in quiet fear, bordering tears.

Mycroft guessed Sherlock's needs and pulled him flinch against his chest. He held Sherlock's hand tightly to ensure him that he was by no means leaving. 

"Sherlock, please, those are just Miller and Paul. They won't hurt you. They were just helping me. How are you feeling?"

Sherlock buried his face in Mycroft's chest, trying to breathe as properly as he could manage.

His brother was there. Sherlock had no idea where they were, but for the moment Mycroft was with him and he was as safe as possible. Mycroft wouldn't hold him only to let the whip cut into his skin or Moran to put his hands on him. No, that wasn't going to happen, not while Mycroft had him.

Mycroft had asked him something. His brow knit add he tried to remember. When he finally spoke, the words were nearly lost in the struggle to breathe. 

"Sc-scared...I'm...I'm scared."

Mycroft was grateful for Sherlock's understanding that he was a safe person, and after those few terrifying times when Sherlock hadn't recognized him and those fearful eyes had landed on him. Mycroft’s compassion towards Greg had grown now, who had to work through that for months before he gained this sort of trust.

"Okay, 'Lock, I know you're scared. We are at a safe place. I am here, and I would never let you be somewhere you weren't safe. Look up, we've a poster up to help you remember. You said you wanted something with stars. See that smudge of them right there? That's Andromeda."

Sherlock did not dare look anywhere at all, burrowing more to Mycroft's chest. 

_Andromeda....what had John said...what had John...John…_

_What had happened to…_

His heart rolled hard, stabbing pain through his chest as a barrage of imagery came to mind without his active recall. He jumped hard as he felt the recoil of the weapon in his hands, the sound of John hitting the ground...but no…

"I..I shot s-someone..e-else..." he whispered, remembering John turning to Greg for protection from...from..." oh," he cried quietly, the sound pure heartbreak, "I...oh...oh he...h-he...he's gone, r-right? He...he's n-not...not h-here...never-r g-going to..." He grit his teeth, tears rolling down his cheeks, remembering that he'd lost John, that he was alone outside of Mycroft.

"You...y-you...you'll n-not...I...I s-still-l m-matter...matter t-to you?" Broken down to less than nothing, he _desperately_ needed to matter to someone, or he’d simply stop fighting and fade away. 

Mycroft didn't know how Sherlock was handling so much emotional trauma and still breathing. The combination of John no longer loving him and the torture and rape from Moran must have been breathtakingly to be painful. 

"Oh, 'Lock, _of course_ you matter to me." Jesus, had he been that cold? Had he been such a stoic older brother through Sherlock's adult life that he wondered if he even mattered? 

Mycroft kissed Sherlock's forehead and nodded. "You matter. You matter so much. I love you, and I won't let anyone hurt you. I'm not leaving anymore. I've moved in. Look, there's another bed, and I've a bag in the corner. I'm not leaving."

Sherlock held as tight to Mycroft as possible, not daring to look. 

"H-how long," he breathed, knowing _alone_ was always around the corner for him. It always, always had been and now always would be. 

"C-can you...pl-please...please s-stay f-for...m-maybe...m-maybe until I s-sleep? Pl-please M-My...j-just 'til..." His voice broke, fear getting the better of him. 

"I won't-t be trouble...j-just...d-don't...pl-please don't m-make...make m-me watch..."

He managed enough strength in his grip to blanch his knuckles, shaking hard as he considered alone again. 

"He's...h-he's all th-that's here...h-he hurts m-me I-" Sherlock shook his head, too weak to keep up the sentence. 

"I will stay with you once you are asleep. I will not leave you, no matter what." 

Mycroft helped Sherlock hold on to him. "You can sleep. I'll keep watch. You do not have to watch anything today, or ever, if you don't want to. You're perfectly alright and safe. I love you. I've moved in, remember? I'll be here for days at a time. I'm staying with you for as long as you want me to stay."

Paul kept a close eye. Sherlock, when touching on the subject of John, often fixated on him. This was new. He leaned forward to better hear, keeping his attention locked on Sherlock.

"I...I br-broke your w-watch when...uni...when y-you...left f-for..." Sherlock tensed his back, making the reddish pink, and purple in some places, scaring move with his muscles. Paul had never gotten a proper look at Sherlock's back, only John's.

"'M a sh-shite brother...pl-please...f-forgive me I was...I w-was so...so l-lonely and..." He shook his head, trending now his entire body, bracing for pain.

Mycroft smoothed Sherlock's hair back. "Oh, Sherlock, I knew it was you. You did a good job with it, making it look like it just broke. You even cleaned your fingerprints off." 

Of course, that was what had tipped Mycroft off, as his own fingerprints had been missing as well. But then again, Sherlock had been young and obviously emotional. 

"You aren't a shite brother. I love you. You were just a boy."

Paul found all of this incredibly interesting. Sherlock was digging into historical misdeeds in an effort to secure protection. 

Sherlock shifted, finally realizing that his hips were caught. He’d not noticed the restraint there before, and the last time he’d found his hips pinned down he’d been horrifically assaulted. 

"M-My!" he screamed abruptly, making even Paul jump. Sherock let go of Mycroft to struggle with the leather securing him in place. He could not get it free, and was suddenly a flurry of chaotic motion, seemingly forgetting that his brother was there with him. Sherlock was sobbing and fighting with everything he had in sudden, blinding panic. 

"NO! No pl-please! No! NO! G-God NO!" 

Miller was tempted to moved forward and stop Sherlock's frantic movement, but he stopped to give Mycroft a moment to deal with it. Sherlock's hands were shaking too hard to manage anything with the buckle, though he somehow had managed to sit himself up, his heart rate shooting through the roof. 

"NO! N-NO! G-GOD NO NO, _NO_!" Sherlock began to gag, nearly breaking off his nails as he fought with the straps, pupils blown wide, oblivious to everything but his need to be free. 

Mycroft sat up net to Sherlock and wrapped his arms around his brother to immobilize him. 

"Sherlock, stop! It's me! It is Mycroft!" He wrestled Sherlock's arms to his chest, which wasn't very difficult, and placed his face just a few inches from his brother's. 

"I will let you out, but you have to promise not to hurt yourself." Mycroft didn't want to make Sherlock promise to be still, for fear of it triggering something. 

"You need to stay calm and remember who I am. I've got you. Trust me, 'Lock. Please, just listen to me and I'll untie these."

Sherlock fought the manual restraint with everything he had, sobbing as he tried to twist himself free, raking pain across his chest and down his back, knowing worse was on its way if he didn't get loose. He screamed as he struggled, unaware of who had him. 

It took all of forty-five seconds for his strength to fail even with the kick of adrenalin and he was soon sagging down into his brother's arms, once again sweat-soaked and violently trembling, stomach heaving as he felt the phantom sensation of Moran's heated fingers running down his back. 

He pressed his face to Mycroft's shoulder and simply cried while his heart monitors chimed and his stomach twisted, slowly realizing his sibling had him. 

"M-My," he wept, breathless and gagging, "h-help me."

Mycroft hated holding Sherlock while he struggled, and could not fathom what had happened to Moran and Moriarty that they derived pleasure from such intense suffering. 

"It's alright, Sherlock. I'm here. I'm right here. You don't need to struggle. I've got you. You're being held by someone who loves you." Mycroft held Sherlock still, but in a way that demonstrated his desire to protect, not restrict. 

Sherlock panted against his brother, spots cracking along his vision. 

_Someone who loves you?That's rich. Is that what you're creating for yourself to hide from me? Love? No one loves you, you little freak._

Sherlock shook his head slowly, nearly breaking then and there. His heart skipped beats before rolling hard back into rhythm. 

"N-no one...n-no-one...no...no-one l-loves..." he whimpered in a way that would have been pathetic if it were not for the extreme nature of his situation, "t-tolerated...m-my b-brother p-puts up w-with me-e." 

His awareness was flagging, caught between lucidity and terrible confusion. 

Mycroft shook his head and kept himself calm. "I love you. I love you. I don't just tolerate you, Sherlock, I love you. I moved in. I'm here to stay. Please, just listen to me. I love you so much. I won't let anyone hurt you, not ever."

Paul shot up out of his chair as Sherlock went all dead weight on his brother, abruptly blacking out. There was no need for it though, as Mycroft maintained his grip with seemingly little effort. Miller muted the monitors and dragged a hand through his hair, watching the men, worrying over Sherlock's steadily deteriorating condition. 

"He desperately needs a wash, and a change of bedding. Maybe now is the best time to get on with it. Maybe if he wakes up clean..." 

Paul shook his head, countering Miller. "If he wakes up with people washing him, he's going to panic like hell." 

Miller drew in a deep breath and nodded, looking down to Mycroft. "Need help with him? We can get him back down and you can go have a shower. He's likely to stay down a bit." 

Mycroft's heart leapt into his throat when Sherlock went limp again, and he looked to the monitors to ensure himself that while Sherlock's heart rate was low, he was still alive. He clung to Sherlock and gently lowered him into position. 

"I'll wash him, if you think it will help."

Miller nodded while Paul shrugged. Miller spoke up, "Can't feel good, he's sweat through his clothes and his bedding several times already. I imagine he wasn't offered a wash while he was a hostage." 

Paul made a face at Miller for his lack of tact and spoke softly to Mycroft, feeling terribly for him. "I can help, I won't touch him, I'll just help you get the bedding and Sherlock sorted. Cardiology will make their rounds in an hour, I bet we can get it done before that." 

Mycroft nodded and pushed his bed away so he could stand by Sherlock's bed. This was awful. He hadn't had a direct involvement with John's recovery, and had no idea how to handle this. He would have to speak with Greg.

"Yes, that would be ideal. I'll be as swift as possible, and try not to wake him. There is still the possibility that he simply will not recognize me, as he didn't when I was holding him back before." 

Paul and Miller swiftly went about gathering supplies, Miller fetched a clean gown and bedding while Paul gathered water, soap, and flannels. 

"I'm going to push his sedative, it won't keep him down but it might help if he wakes up. I'm going to swap out these bandages as you clean him, he's drenched himself through." Miller whispered quietly as he pushed a white, thick medication into Sherlock's line. 

Paul set a bowl of hot water and a gentle soap beside Mycroft and began unbuckling Sherlock, loosing his limbs before stepping back, allowing Mycroft to control the situation mostly for Mycroft's own sanity. 

Mycroft started with Sherlock's face and hair. He was dirty, sticky and slick with sweat and oils, which Mycroft gently cleansed away. He worked down Sherlock's neck, arms, and chest, worried what would happen if Sherlock awoke with his hips uncovered. 

The scar tissue could be felt even through the cloth and Mycroft searched for a section of undamaged skin to focus his eyes on. 

Paul now had his focus on Mycroft. The elder brother's thick, seemingly impenetrable walls were crumbling. He'd aged and seriously dropped in weight since Paul had met him.

"He trusts you when he knows you. That's invaluable, Mycroft. The human spirit is incredible, it just needs a little light, and you give him that. John was mentally abused to a point I honestly did not know if he was recoverable or not. Just the love of one person can make all the difference."

Sherlock's heart was slowly shifting from too slow, to overly fast, though he made no sign that he was trying to wake. Miller was watching his vitals closely as Mycroft gave him a much needed washing up.

Mycroft pulled Sherlock's blanket down over his hips and washed him as gently as he possibly could while still cleaning effectively. He did not want Sherlock to wake up during this. 

"I am glad he trusts me," Mycroft said in a whisper. "He needs to trust me. The only issue is he sometimes doesn't know if I am real, or doesn't recognize me there at all."

Paul shook his head, "The move and change in environment has stressed him severely. It's not surprising he gets lost. You do a remarkable job of calling him back, none of us can reach him. Thus far he's only been responsive to you and John. He seeks you out even when he's not aware of what he's doing. Perhaps the next time you have to leave, you can leave him something that smells of you. That may-"

Sherlock physically jumped as Mycroft gently went over sensitive skin, eyes still closed, though his expression crumpled. He was quiet and still moments later, as though nothing had occurred. Paul shook his head, relieved that Sherlock slept on.

Miller was swift behind Mycroft, peeling off banging and cleaning wounds before applying fresh dressing or leaving things to air out.

Mycroft was quick to explain his tactics, in hopes that it might work for them in the future. "I tap to him in morse code. It helps him when he can't hear what I'm saying, but he can still feel me. He shuts down and can't hear me, but for some reason, the tapping usually gets through. I just tell him who I am, and that he is safe. It generally pulls him up." 

Mycroft drew his hands away when Sherlock jumped, and went more gingerly from then on. 

Sherlock was suddenly up in tears, blinking his eyes open, fixing first on Paul and then to Miller who was fiddling at his neck where he'd slit his own throat.

"Your brother is here," Miller said gently, nodding to Mycroft as he carried on working. Sherlock looked up at the ceiling, starting at the poster while acutely aware of Moran’s presence.

"I th-think I'm dying," he slurred in French to Moran, tears rolling down his cheeks as he smiled, "and y-you won't f-f-follow me there." 

To Sherlock, Moran was working at something that would soon be blinding agony. But he could feel the change in his physical heart. There was a quality there he'd not known before, something finite and fragile, and fuck did it hurt.

"You aren't dying," Mycroft responded in French. "You aren't dying. I'm here. I'm keeping you safe. I won't let you go anywhere I can't follow." 

Mycroft figured it was intended to Moran, hence the smile, but he would reassure him nonetheless. 

"I am My, your brother. I'll keep you safe." He looked up at Miller then. 

"He thinks he is dying," he said softly in English, in case he didn't speak French. 

Miller frowned at that, not caring to hear that at all. 

"Sherlock, why do you think you're dying?" 

As he asked, he was paging cardiology. Cardiac patients were always taken seriously when they voiced a sense of impending doom. They had an uncanny accuracy. The body gave off such incredible warning.

Sherlock was ignoring him though, turning his focus to his brother and staring at him in confusion. "You're here. You're....you're..." He closed his eyes and grit his teeth as a harsh wave of pain constricted his chest. 

"M-My don't leave...please d-don't leave m-me," he whispered through gritted teeth, clutching at his own arm, terribly afraid to die alone.

Mycroft would have liked to wash down Sherlock's legs, but decided that for now it would be better if he got the man to fall back asleep. 

"It's alright. I'm here. I won't leave. I've moved in, remember? You won't be rid of me for quite some time. I'm sure you'll be sick of me by the end of it." 

Mycroft held Sherlock's face in his hands and smiled at him. "I'm right here. You can go back to sleep, and I'll be right here again when you wake up."

Miller swore under his breath as the read out of Sherlock's heart started pitching in an all too familiar way. He willed the cardiologist to damn well hurry up, kicking up Sherlock's oxygen.

"Calm down, Sherlock," he whispered, eyes on the EKG. Sherlock's color was fading with the rest of him, his focus on Mycroft even as breathing became difficult.  
"D-don't l-leave me," Sherlock whispered, fear clouding his eyes as he stared at Mycroft, "pl-please don't l-leave me."

Mycroft abandoned his cloth and wrapped his arms around Sherlock. He crawled up onto the bed next to him and covered Sherlock with his own body to shield him from anything he might find frightening. 

"Deep breaths, Sherlock. Come on, breathe with me." 

By the time cardiology got there, Sherlock had gone ashen around his lips, eyes glassy and breathing clipped. He was clutching at his chest, deeply pained. The cardiologist began to ask Mycroft to move before Miller stopped him, shaking his head.

Sherlock whispered to his brother, drenched in pain and fear. "H-hurts...it h-hurts...st-stay with me...I'm...g-god it hurts...M-My don't...don't l-leave," he rambled, gasping between words.

They were working to fix his heart at Mycroft's back, but in Sherlock's mind he was dying with an imagined figment of his brother for company, trapped with Moran. 

"C-can't be him...n-not...not him l-last...don't f-fade..I n-need...need you h -here with...with me." His French clipped and slurred as his heart gave them hell, crushing pain through his body.

Mycroft's mind was in a full panic. His hearing was warped, with the monitor's blare and Sherlock's weak voice deafeningly loud in his ears. 

"I'll stay with you," he said urgently, as if it were his last chance to say it. "I love you. God, I love you. I'm so sorry. I did everything I could. I'm here for you." 

Mycroft tried to give the cardiologist room, but didn't let go of Sherlock for a moment. 

Sherlock grit his teeth as a hot, burning sensation tore up his arm and across his chest, both Miller and the leading cardiologist working hard to stay on top of the rapidly unravelling situation.

"He's having a heart attack," Miller said grimly, watching the familiar dips etch into Sherlock's sinus rhythm. Sherlock was in tears, reaching up and grabbing Mycroft's collar, trying to hold on to his brother.

Just as Sherlock lost consciousness, the cardiologist breathed in relief, watching as the medications did as they were supposed to and settled the attack out. 

"Back in sinus rhythm," he said to the nurse tracking medications and progress. 

Mycroft clutched Sherlock and began to cry. He dropped his head to his brother's shoulder once the incredibly stressful ordeal was over and failed to hold back his tears. Mycroft had one arm under Sherlock with his hand between Sherlock's shoulder blades, and the other held the back of Sherlock's head up to rest on his shoulder as if he were awake and embracing him back. Mycroft's shoulders shook for a few moments as he struggled to get himself composed. 

"I'm sorry," he whispered, realizing just how selfish he was being. "I'm here, 'Lock. I'm here. I'm here now. I won't let anyone hurt you."

Miller and the cardiology team quietly moved out into the hall to discuss Sherlock's condition, leaving Paul to see to Mycroft.

"He can recover from that," he said gently, daring to reach out and put a gentle hand in Mycroft's shoulder, "that's survivable." In reality, they'd taken Sherlock down from a massive infarction to a mild ischemic attack. He'd have lasting damage, as all sufferers do, but it would be mild.

The trauma of watching Sherlock's heart try and give out was anything but mild. "He's okay, Mycroft, he's ok. Give yourself a moment, it's alright."

Mycroft struggled to get himself back together. It was far easier to fall apart, to fall down, than it was to pick himself back together and force himself to function. He continued to hold Sherlock in such a way that he almost felt awake, lucid, hugging him but not clinging, and Mycroft wondered if he'd get to feel that any time soon. 

Each time he thought he was calm, Mycroft would pull away. He would begin to slowly release Sherlock. But then, he would see Sherlock's pale face and ashen lips, the yellow patches of discoloration and the puffy scars, and he would reach for him once more. 

"He's okay," Mycroft repeated, "but it's as if his body is trying to die."

Paul answered gently, "Human bodies demand to live. He's fighting, he's not shown indication of giving up. The move had taxed him heavily, and stress is pushing his heart, but Miller and the best cardiologists in England are sorting it. Sherlock is a fighter."

And indeed, Sherlock was already twitching, not surfacing, but obviously fighting to do so.

Mycroft finally worked up the nerve to release Sherlock and sat up. Tears were drying on his face and he swiftly wiped them off. With haste and a desire to be useful and busy, he looked for the rag he had tossed aside to start washing Sherlock again. 

"Yes, he's a fighter. He was a literal fighter for some time. Boxing, a bit of Muay Thai, some Judo... He got quite good at it. I never approved of his fighting venues, though." 

Mycroft was recalling such memories and speaking rather rapidly as he pulled the covers up from Sherlock's feet and washed anywhere he could find a patch of skin that needed it. 

Sherlock fluctuated between struggling for consciousness and complete lassitude, limp and breathing sporadically. Paul stuck beside Mycroft, deeply concerned for the elder sibling, aiding with Sherlock's washing up and then changing the bedding under him. 

Miller and cardiology walked back in just as they were drawing fresh blankets up over Sherlock. The cardiologist moved over to the extensive monitor and began printing off the ticker tape of Sherlock's electrical activity. He began speaking to Mycroft as he was focused on Sherlock's EKG. 

"He's had a mild heart attack, and while he's stable for now, you can see here," he pointed to Sherlock's T waves, though Mycroft was unlikely to understand by sight alone, "that he's still in poor rhythm. The medication successfully converted him, which is a positive sign. However," he turned to face Mycroft, looking down at Sherlock as he picked up one of Sherlock's hands, pressing down gently on a fingernail and watching the sluggish return of pink where it had blanched white, "he's poorly perfusing. I believe we've reached the point where the benefits of sedating him outweigh the risks. The last three times he's panicked, he's gone into crisis. His body needs a chance to rest and heal before dealing with psychological trauma." 

Mycroft shut his eyes and listened to Sherlock's breathing to remind himself that the man was still alive. 

"Alright. Then you should put him under. I'll get some work done, I think, if he is going to be unconscious. I can get a few of the big projects done...Maybe have time to stay with him more completely when he wakes." 

Mycroft was on his feet, but his whole posture was leaned over Sherlock and demonstrated how much he abhorred being away from him. 

"When do you plan on putting him under?"

Miller chose to speak then, oddly a bit protective of Mycroft, wanting to handle the man himself. 

"With your permission, now. Or we can give him a chance to wake up, if you'd prefer, and then put him under once you've had a chance to speak with him. Mycroft," he shifted a bit closer, speaking frankly now, "he's critical. There is a distinct possibility that despite our best efforts, he does not make it. His heart was not giving us this much difficulty before. I need to hear that you understand the risks associated with sedating him. We believe this is his best chance, but odds are not in his favor."

Mycroft briefly covered his face with his hands and took a long, deep breath. "I am aware of the risks, and that his heart...I know what might happen. It would be better if you sedate him now, while he is calm." He reached out and put one hand on Sherlock's cheek. 

"He's so strong. I don't know how he's still breathing. After this much...Just do everything you can, alright?"

Miller nodded and put a hand on Mycroft's shoulder. "Everything," he assured, wishing there was more to be done. 

Paul kept to Mycroft's side, helping him gather his things while Miller paged in a few nurses to help him in the process of putting Sherlock down. They'd have to insert a PIC line, and they'd once again take over his breathing and body systems in the hopes that uninterrupted rest would give his heart a chance to recover. 

"Thank you, Miller. You've been a great help in all this."

Mycroft gathered his things together and watched his baby brother intently. With his arms still full of his bag and coat, he leaned over and pressed a kiss to his forehead. 

"I'll be back," he whispered, which was foolish, as he knew Sherlock likely couldn't hear him.


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay everyone! Thank you for your comments, they motivate me to get back in here and post when I forget. 
> 
> -Amphi

Paul moved with Mycroft out into the hall, glad that he was not going to stay to watch them induce coma. PIC line placement alone was difficult to see. 

"Is there anything I can do for you, Mycroft? For the next few days there will hopefully be very little to report on. Perhaps it will give you time to catch up with work and rest. Speaking with Greg might be a bit of help, if anyone can empathize, it will be him." 

Mycroft took his coat off the hook and shook his head. "I'll be able to manage myself, thank you. I'll be alright. I think I'll visit Greg, or at least call him. I'll get ahead in my work and sleep."  
Mycroft gave Sherlock one last look. 

"Thank you, Miller. I'd like updates, even if there isn't anything in particular that I need to know. If I know that you're updating me, I'll be less likely to check the monitors obsessively."

Paul nodded, "Of course, as often as you like. Ten days of this should give him a chance. The last time we did this, he was much better off for it, and now he's not battling pneumonia." 

He cleared his throat and nodded to Mycroft's things. "Can I help you down? Would you like me to tell Greg you're on your way over?"

Mycroft shook his head. "I can do this on my own, thank you. You've been a blessing." 

Mycroft turned and left, his things under his arms, and went out to his car. He had opted to have someone drive him, to avoid paying for parking at the hospital for several days. He called his car in and sat down heavily. Mycroft took one shuddering breath that showed just how broken the affair had left him. 

\---------------------------------------------

Greg was up, leaving John in a little nest he'd made for the man on the sofa, all pillows and John's blanket, something funny on the telly, as he went and made him a cuppa. They day had thus far been calm, and damn if that wasn't wonderful beyond measure. 

"Alright, John," he said warmly, offering John the full mug which again he'd cooled with ice, bringing it to pleasantly warm. He sat down next to the man, dropping into the fluff that was the sofa now, pressing a kiss to John's temple before he brought his own tea to his lips. 

John accepted the tea with less hesitation than before, and he was almost eager to test his own tolerance for the liquid. He tested it the same way as before to set his nerves at ease, and once he was content that it wasn't too hot, he burrowed into Greg's side and began with the spoon. 

"I'm going to get better at this," he said firmly, even when the initial shock of liquid in his mouth rocked him. He switched to the straw once he was confident enough and made good progress.

Greg beamed at him, wrapping an arm around John when he pressed to his side. "What do you mean 'going to?' You already are," he teased lightly, wrapping encouragement and praise in the simple statement. John was leaps and bounds better than he'd been in Mycroft's facility. 

Greg had plans for the day, which was why he'd made a safe, comfortable spot for John on the sofa and one on the bed. John would have two familiar places to retreat if he needed. For now, he just wanted John to enjoy his tea and lay against his side. 

"I love you." 

John nuzzled down against Greg like an affectionate cat when he was praised, but turned his attention to his drink once more. He wasn't quite ready to bring it to his lips, and used the straw to keep a very steady, slow stream of the sweetened tea while taking deep, regulated breaths through his nose. The tea was delicious, and John's eyes weren't panicked and pained like they usually were. It was a mental shift, not entirely due to the flavor, but more his mental decision that because it tasted good, it wasn't all bad, and he could work through any pain associated with it so he could enjoy it. It added another motive to drink, a more personal one, which aided with his resolve.

"I love you too," he responded and his voice was only a little tight. He had to stop and take deep breaths, but he wasn't close to panicking.

"You're doing grand," Greg whispered with a smile, then laughing at something slapstick and deeply stupid on the telly. His focus now was to keep John distracted while he sipped at his tea, as one never really focused on the act of drinking. 

It was only a few days into them living at Greg's flat, but it had settled somewhat and for Greg at least, was already far better than living in the compound. With the exception of his feelings on Sherlock, things were decidedly looking up. 

John finished more than half before taking a break and kissing Greg on the shoulder before resting his head on it. 

"Thank you. You're wonderful."

John looked around at the walls and decor which we're coming increasingly more comfortable. Greg was there, and he had a sort of freedom in a home versus a compound that could be so easily locked down. The only thing it lacked was security, but Greg provided that easily.

Greg hummed happily at him. "So are you," he replied honestly, reaching up and clicking off the telly. He shifted so that he could better look at John and then spoke calmly to him, knowing the topic was difficult. 

"We need to speak frankly about Sherlock, yeah?"

John's eyes dropped to his tea and he swirled it with his straw. 

"What is it you want to talk about?" 

He knew he couldn't call, and had absolutely no desire to visit, and both facts made him feel very guilty. 

Greg shook his head and pressed a kiss to John's temple. 

"All I want to do is keep you happy and comfortable, But that would be robbing you, John. You...listen, I know you are scared, but you two...you deserve to know how you feel about the man, and not what you've been conditioned to feel. You...when you were with him the last few times, you cared, you wanted to be there to a point. It's still in you, John. We can all see it, and I would be doing wrong by you not to help you remember." 

John's lips were pressed in a thin line. "I don't know what is conditioning and what is real, most of the time. There are things I can't tell with. I know the water, the food, and Sherlock are all a result of it, and obvious things like kitchen knives and wet rags, but he made me nervous on the phone, and some words scare me, and I don't know if I'm feeling angry towards him because he was an ass when I left, or because my subconscious thinks he tortured me."

Greg nodded, pulling John in closer for a moment to hug him in reassurance. "He's always been an ass. It never bothered you. In a way, I think you enjoyed that part of him. You made him better, and he did the same for you. There isn't a reason his being an ass would suddenly make you hate him after all those years, John. You wouldn't have crawled up in his bed and protected him, not...not if that was the case. You two...god, the pair of you...like you were made for each other, frankly." 

John shook his head. No, that didn't seem right. They had been friends, but Sherlock had always been an ass. He had never cared. "No, I...When I left, he was being a bigoted arse hole! I suggested that he was maybe just sore I was leaving, and it made it worse! He didn't come for me until after I was already a screaming mess!" 

John stopped then and his brow knitted. Something wasn't quite right about that sentence. 

"But he didn't know, so I shouldn't be angry...?"

Greg slid his fingers through John's hair, running his nails lightly over his scalp in a bid to soothe him. 

"You and Sherlock talked this out several times. Do you remember what he said about you leaving? How he was in love with you, and afraid you'd leave if he said so. Remember? He'd been trying to find you cases to keep your interest. He'd not known you were in danger. You both talked about it. He...do you remember?" 

John put his hands over his face and set his tea in his lap. 

"I remember. But it doesn't make sense. If he loved me, why not just say something? He didn't need to tell me he loved me! Just that he wanted me to stay. I would have taken any little hint from him. I always did. I always canceled my plans for him."

Greg smiled sadly then, remembering everything Sherlock had said to John on the matter. 

"He was scared," Greg whispered gently, trailing his fingers over the back of John's neck. "He knows this is his fault, John. Even though it isn't, not really. You've said as much yourself. But Sherlock...if you need him to blame himself, he clearly does. He was just scared, John. That's not so strange, is it?"

John let out a small whimper and gave his hair a light tug. "I know it isn't his fault. I know it in my mind. But I can't help but feel..." John searched his mind for the word. 

"I know he didn't do it, but I still feel hurt as if he did. Betrayed. I'm still..God, I couldn't figure out why he was doing it. I asked. I asked over and over. _Why?_ It didn't make sense. He was hurting me, and I couldn't make sense of what I had done."

Greg took John's hand out of his hair and held it in his own.

"I can't imagine feeling any other way about it, John. God, I can't imagine what that would have been like for you. I just can't. It's fucking terrible how they pulled the two of you apart. But you'd be missing something in your life if you didn't address it, John. Like...he's...like the sugar in the tea, yeah? You loved his company, even when he was being a complete arse. Everyone else saw a freak. You...you saw something else. Saw what I see, I think, at least to a point. It's not your fault that you feel this way or that you are hurting, I just want to help you get that part of your life back." 

John held Greg's hand and dropped his head. His expression was pinched in intense concentration. 

"I was his best friend. He was my best friend. I know I loved him, and I know I would have done anything for him. But I still feel..." John's lower lip quivered. "I felt him beat me. I know it wasn't him, but I trusted him and he carved me. I can say logically it wasn't him, but it still hurts. I can't remember things right. I think about him, and I see someone I love, and who hurt me. Now he says he loves me, and it doesn't fit. It doesn't make sense."

Greg gently eased John's head to rest against his chest, humming in thought. 

"John...I think you may want to try that the other way around. He loved you before, and I know you knew that on some level. What doesn't make sense is his working with Moriarty to hurt you. You know this to not be true. You've seen his reaction to causing you even mild discomfort. He slit his throat in a misguided attempt to make life easier for you. We've got to start changing the way your brain processes thoughts about him. Stack all the data you know now,that you've seen from him...do you remember watching him when you were in hospital the first time? When I sat with you and we watched him? You have so much data to push against the walls that are up." 

John tried to remember what he knew of Sherlock. 

"This is what I know. I know that he loves me, he always did, and he doesn't want to hurt me. Actually, it's sort of a sore spot for him. I know that I loved him. I know that he never hurt me. I know that I should love him. But what I feel? I can't get over what happened in those rooms. Didn't happen. I know it didn't happen. But Moriarty is clever. He knew how to make me think it was Sherlock." 

John ran his fingers back through his hair and tears began to burn his eyes. 

"Because now I look at him and even if I know it wasn't him, I still want to ask him why. _Why_?" That had been the biggest question from John throughout the ordeal. When Moriarty dug into his flesh with a knife, playing Sherlock's voice while John was blindfolded and bound, John had screamed _why_ until his throat was raw. 

Greg chewed at the inside of his lip, lost on how to handle this. John's position was heartbreaking, as was Sherlock's. It was indescribable in its complete horribleness. 

"He's....he loves you enough to let go. I know he'd never try to contact you again if that's what you wanted. You have your answer as to why. You already know. Moriarty was clever, but you're stronger. You're much, much stronger. John..." 

Greg hesitated before speaking again, greatly risking the calm now, "there...there is a bit on tape where Moriarty explains to you what he intends to do. You were so furious with him. You...god you cursed him and you fought. You hated him for what he was going to do to you. Is...is it frightening to let go of the anger at Sherlock and put it on Moriarty?" Perhaps that was the issue here. 

"I hate Moriarty." John curled in on himself as he was shaking. 

"I hate him! He said -god, Greg, I fought it- he said I would hurt Sherlock, and I said I wouldn't. I said I wouldn't ever do anything to hurt him. And now look at me!" John sat up and looked at Greg. 

"I'm hurting him! I swore I wouldn't. I swore it. I'm hurting him. I hate Moriarty. He made me hurt Sherlock." 

John never wanted to hurt Sherlock, but he couldn't help the terror that he associated with him. 

"I tried so hard not to hurt Sherlock, and I was beaten for it! I was tortured because I was strong and tried not to hurt him. I held on anyway, though, as best as I could. I kept trying not to give in, not to hurt him. And it hurt. He hurt me for it. And now, I try to help him, I try not to hurt him, and I remember what happened before, and then it hurts."

Greg gathered John in close. "Hey, hey, breathe John. I'm not upset with you, love. I know this is so hard. You have worked so hard. We are going to figure it all out. You are not hurting him. Moriarty is hurting him. Not you.”

John had regressed to clipped, simple sentences and blanket words to describe the fear and pain in his mind. He had a deep fear of hurting Sherlock that he had instilled in himself to keep from breaking, but also was afraid of his own resolution for the pain it brought him. 

"I'm sorry," John muttered and pressed himself against Greg's chest. "I don't want to hurt him, but I can't help but feel betrayed by him. I don't know if it's from the beatings, the way he acted before, or the fact that he didn't come for me until it was too late, but I know it hurts."

Greg hummed, deciding to push a bit more. "Tell me more than it hurts. Tell me with other words. Describe it."

"It could have been anyone," John exclaimed, "Anyone but him. I'd have been alright with anyone but him! Why him? God, it hurt. I hated it. I hated it!"

Greg held John close, heart squeezed I'm sympathy for him. 

"Now...now answer your question. Why him, John?"

John was beginning to break down. His shoulders shook and he was making a valiant effort to hold back tears and remain coherent. 

"Because he was my friend! I trusted him!"

Greg pulled John fully onto his lap and held him close, gently rubbing his back, hoping to hell he was doing the right thing. 

"Sherlock never betrayed your trust. Moriarty didn't take that. You can still feel the hurt, John, that feeling of betrayal is real, but the betrayal itself is not."

John wiped his face with his hands and stared at his palms. 

"I'm so angry with Sherlock, and I have no right to be."

Greg balked at that. "Like hell you don't. His voice and his likeness did unspeakable things to you and you've every right in the world to be angry! Hell, I'm angry, I'm angry at the image of the man who hurt you too. You're allowed to be angry John! Don't crush it down, have it out. He's not here."

John shook his head and started muttering under his breath. "No, no...no...I can't be angry. I promised I wouldn't. M-Moriarty said I'd be angry with him and hate him and it would hurt Sherlock. I can't be angry. I can't. I will not hurt Sherlock. I will not hurt Sherlock. I will-"  
John nearly jumped out of his skin as the sound of a cracking whip drove his thoughts away like scattering birds. 

"John! Come back. Right here with me. You are safe, and you can't hurt anyone here. Whatever is in your head, you need to listen to me."

Greg held John's face in his hands and stared at him. 

"John. Fight it. You are safe. Fight it."

John dug his hands in his hair. 

_"I will not hurt Sherlock!" John cried and grit his teeth. It was how he was still holding on after a month of torture. The whip cracked across his back and John writhed in agony. The zip-ties around his wrists dug into the flesh but he pulled at them anyhow._

_"Care to say that again?" Moriarty raised the whip and gave him a blank, unemotional look._

_"I won't hurt him!"_

_The whip fell again, and Moriarty clicked his tongue. "I'm getting tired of whipping you, John. How about you stop with that foolish notion and we call it a day?"_

_John shook his head defiantly. "No! I won't fucking hurt Sherlock!"_

_Moriarty smiled. In time, he would associate that phrase and that idea with pain as well._

John's chest heaved as he fought for control. "I w-won't hurt Sherlock," he choked and prepared himself for pain. 

Greg pulled John to his chest and rocked him gently, carding fingers through his hair. "That's right, John. You won't hurt Sherlock. You always protect him. You won't hurt him."

He hugged John close, doing his best to soothe him.

John was torn between falling apart in the way of panic, and falling apart on the way of grief. He was equally close to dissolving into tears and screams, and tried to resist both. 

"H-He-" John coughed hard and clutched Greg. "H-He whipped m-me for-for saying I w-wouldn-n't hurt him."

Greg grabbed a pillow from beside him and covered John's back with it, wrapping his arms around it to hold John better against him.

"He was a lunatic. You are not going to feel pain now. Greg has you." He tucked John's head down over his heart, trying to make evening soft and safe.

John was trapped between panic and sadness, and he wept into Greg's shirt.The protection helped greatly. He felt secure with the pillow covering him and Greg holding him close, but the sadness and betrayal and hurt was still there.

 

"He hurt me for everything," John lamented. "It wasn't fair! He tricked me into eating or saying the wrong thing!"

Greg carried on holding tight to John, making no move to quiet him. He didn't want John quiet, he wanted him to vent out that tangled anger. 

"He's a complete bastard," Greg agreed, obviously angry on John's behalf. "It's not fair."

John balled his hands into fists as tears ran down his face. 

"It isn't FAIR!" 

He pressed on his temples with the heels of his hands and squeezed his eyes shut. "I don't want to be afraid of my friend. I don't want to be unable to even feed and wash myself! It isn't fair what he did to me!"

Greg's heart broke for John but he was so relieved to hear the anger. "He was a thief and a coward. It's not fair, none of it. Damn him for doing this." Intentionally stoking the flames to keep the anger going, Greg tried to validate his words.

Greg's validation fanned the flames and they surged higher as if doused with gasoline. For so long he had been suppressing things, fear, panic, depression and anxiety, but now he had permission to let something go. 

"I hate him! I'm glad he's dead! I want to hurt him!" Up until this point, John had kept his head down. Now he looked up, eyes ablaze and swore loudly. 

"He had no fucking right! He isn't allowed to just break people!"

Greg was right in it with John, step for step. "No he's fucking not! I'd like to have his head in for what he dared do to you!" 

John was engaged, and it was perfect. He'd keep up with him as long as John could go.

"I'm a good man!" John exclaimed loudly, eyes glaring out the window. "I helped people! I saved lives in the war. He only did this to hurt Sherlock!" 

John seemed to break then, and a heavy sob wracked him. "I'm worthless! I didn't even matter. He would have tortured any poor bastard Sherlock had gotten attached to! I was just caught up in their fucking game!"

That did incite Greg's anger then. 

"Bullocks, John! Who cares fuck all what mattered to them? You mean the goddamn world to two people! Damn him for making you feel like you are worthless! You are a good man, a rare sort of man, and they couldn't take that from you. Damn them, they were worthless, never you!"

John didn't believe himself worth anything to anyone. Not really. Greg didn't need him before this had happened, and Sherlock had been just fine alone. Moriarty wouldn't have been able to do this if John hadn't become Sherlock's friend. 

"I'm just a pawn."  
Greg nearly growled at that. "No." He held John's face between his hands and repeated the forceful word. 

" _No_. Only to those damn psychopaths are you a pawn. They were _insane_ , John. Their opinions do not matter. You listen to _me_. Greg. Right here. You are my _life_ , John. You are not worthless. Men who torture for sport, for games, they are fucking worthless. You are not allowed to judge your value based on their opinions. Not ever. I _adore you_. You are so deeply loved. It's alright to feel bad, to feel angry and grieved, it's okay to be scared, it's okay to feel betrayed or lost or confused but it is _not okay_ to tell yourself you are worthless. No." 

John's breath hitched under the weight of the words and he began to weep once more. Greg had told him everything he needed to hear, but John simply couldn't bring himself to believe it. 

"I want to be important," he stammered, "I want to be loved. I know you love me, but I don't feel...I don't know. I don't feel like a person." 

He dropped his head and his chin quivered. John felt stupid for saying it, but it was the most accurate way of saying it. 

That came as no surprise to Greg, who'd seen the effects of torture though not this extreme. John wasn't feeding himself or bathing, and had only just started to drink. He was shuffled from point to point, very little say in his life. 

"John," he said gently, sliding one hand up to rest at the back of John's head, lightly scratching at his scalp, "that will pass. It will pass. Every single day you get stronger, and every day you can do more things. Eating and drinking, taking care of yourself while you live with me, that will make the inhuman feeling go away. You lived with monsters for a long time, and they tried to take away your humanity. But they didn't. They so did not. You are a man. Remember how I drew you? That's who you are. That's what you are. You're not a project or...or anything else. You're my best mate John Watson, and I'm just helping you through a hard time so that we can get back to the good times." 

John whimpered and shook his head. "I'm not a person anymore. I'm just a thing. I just go where I'm told and do what I'm told like I have been for almost two years now. I don't know what I'm doing. I don't my know how to function. I can't even form a proper thought without Moriarty shaping it for me. I'm not a person. I'm like a pet. A dog. I was trained to do one thing now I'm learning something else."

Greg moved without thinking, still holding John's head in his hands. For the second time since this all began, he brushed his lips ever so gently over John's, lingering for only a second before drawing back, sweeping his thumbs along John's cheekbones and speaking very softly. 

"You are a recovering trauma sufferer. I hear that you feel hopeless and small, but you are the exact opposite. Let me be your compass while you cannot see. You know how to function. You know how to think. You are blanketed in fear and that paralyzes you, but all the know-how is still there. It's all still there. Every day you get stronger. You are not training, you are overcoming. These are just steps on the way up. Remember what Sherlock told you? You're a mountain, John. There is nothing small about you." 

John closed his eyes when Greg kissed him and allowed himself to relax. It felt nice to know that he was loved, and the tenderness and gentleness of it was something he needed. "I'll trust you, but I still feel small. I am small! Look at me. I look just shy of emaciated. At the best, I look too thin. And the scars..." John's hand flew to his chest and he touched the _JM_ that rose up higher than the other scars. He wondered if it could be seen through a thin shirt. "I won't be worthless forever. I'll get better at this. I'll make you dinner and help keep things clean. I want to be useful, and not just something everyone keeps around because they pity."

Greg spoke slow and clear, needing John to hear this. "I do _not_ pity you. I don't pity you, John. I empathize with you, and I hurt with you, but you do not have my pity. You are not being 'kept around.' This...it's like the water, yeah? Remember how you thought the water just had to be endured, and now you remember it's nice sometimes? It's like that. It's like that, John." 

John pulled Greg down closer to him and locked his fingers in the man's hair. 

"I want to get better at this, but I can't think of any way to practice. You'll help me, though. You always help me." 

John leaned forward and pressed a lingering kiss to Greg's forehead. His eyes closed, his shoulders relaxed, and his breathing returned to normal. 

"I love you, Greg."

Greg relaxed, wrapping his hands back around John and hugging him close. "Mountain. That's what you are," and he fully agreed with Sherlock. The weather could churn around them but John managed it, he got though, he overcame. 

"I love you. God I admire you. I love you. You will get better, we are practicing all the time, and now that you're home it's going to be so much easier, it already is, even if you don't see that." 

John hummed lightly at the word _home_. "I don't see why you admire me. I didn't do particularly well. My pain threshold is shot now. I'm not stronger for it. I'm like a fucking house of cards."

Greg shook his head and touched the side of John's face. 

"You're not. You're not a house of cards, but I understand that you feel that way. Now, you've done some really hard talking. What can I do for you that you'd like? A bit more tea or telly or...I will do whatever you'd like, let's do something nice for a bit. Thank you for talking to me, I know it's not easy. You pick, and don't tell me you don't care, if you don't care then just pick something. Your choice." 

When John heard that the talk was over, he breathed a sigh of relief and tipped forward to lean his forehead down on Greg's shoulder. "I don't care what we do. You decide. I'm tired and I feel bad." He crawled up into Greg's lap and pulled his blanket around himself in an effort to make himself feel less worthless. 

"This it is then," Greg replied, dragging the blankets around John and building pillows up at his back and nesting them in. He slowly rubbed John's back, trying to soothe him without words. He clicked the telly on and found a station playing gentle music, lowering the volume and letting it float around them. Perhaps John would nap and that would reset the day. It was just before noon. They could sleep and then have something for lunch. 

John settled down onto Greg's shoulder and closed his eyes. He hated speaking about such things. Each time he endeavored to understand why his mind was working a certain way, it grew painful and he became upset with just how damaged he was. It was much easier to just ignore it all and fall asleep on Greg. After a just a minute had past, John sleeping heavily. 

Greg sighed in relief when John dropped out naturally. They'd gotten through some tea and difficult talk of Sherlock without drugs. John was sleeping unmedicated. It was a victory, even if it left John wrung out. He let himself fall into a doze along with John, enjoying the hope that he'd been steadily carrying around. Perhaps there was a chance for John and Sherlock both. 

John woke up twice. Once quietly, gently stirring and nuzzling back down onto Greg, and once violently, with a loud scream and panicked expression. 

It had been one of those nightmares that scattered him once he woke up, the dreadful kind that were so close to reality that they left you wondering if they had been real. Except, unfortunately for John, they were already based in fact. John was dreaming of the first week he had begun to truly believe it was Sherlock beating him. 

_John was on his back with his arms and legs tied down on the table. He was blindfolded, sore, and painfully hungry when the voice began to play, and he began to struggle. But this time was different. The voice wasn't coming from every direction like it seemed to with the speakers. No, he distinctly heard a door open, footsteps draw near, and then his own name, spoken clearly by Sherlock himself. He could smell him. He could feel Sherlock's coat when it brushed against him._

_"NO!" John began, familiar with what the voice meant. "NO, NO PLEASE!"_

_John was sure it was Sherlock now, and was torn between fear of the voice and want for rescue._

_"Sherlock, please! Please, help me! HELP ME!"_

_The voice had laughed then, and the pain had started, leaving John screaming in broken betrayal and burning agony._

John put his hands over his head and screamed.

Greg startled hard at the sound of John’s screaming, and it took him several seconds to put together what was happening. He left John's hands over his head and simply wrapped around John, helping to shield him from whatever terror he saw. 

“I have you," he said calmly, his voice loud and gentle. "John, I have you. You're with me, and you're safe. It was a dream, a memory, John. It's over. You're safe." He had one hand at the back of John's head, the other over top, trying to calm his own racing heart. 

John panted and sank his fingernails into his scalp. 

"No, no, no..." John shook his head and began to cry, eyes spilling over and heart twisting. "Please, no," John's voice twisted with pain and heartbreak that went straight to his core and he cried out in fear. 

"F-Friend," he managed to choke out between desperate sobs, "P-Pl-lease!"

Greg let him go then, terrified that John thought he was a threat. "John, I'm right here. You're with Greg. Nothing is going to happen to you, you're safe. Please open your eyes. You're with Greg."

John tried to take deep breaths, but his mind simply wouldn't let him view thereality of the situation. His mind was jerking around erratically without direction, latching on to the parts of the dream that applied to the current situation to inform him that he was currently being held down by Sherlock, who was about to carve into him with a knife. 

To his mind, it seemed logical. 

John let out a scream of sheer horror and his eyes flew open, though what he saw was not at all congruent with reality. 

"John," Greg repeated, ducking so that he was in John's line of sight, "John tell me what you think is happening. No one is going to hurt you, just tell me what is happening." His own heart was racing as self doubt leached in. What if he'd pushed wrong, or too hard? Had he been too demanding, stretched John too thin? He wasn't a doctor, he'd no training in psychology other than immediate victim trauma. He swallowed hard and worried quietly to himself. 

"John, please talk to me." 

John's blurred eyes found Greg and for a very brief moment relief shone on his face. It was quickly torn away by a soft, almost gentle voice in his mind. 

_Oh, John, look who I've brought today! He's here to hurt you just like Sherlock._

John adamantly shook his head and pressed his hands over his ears. 

_What, don't believe me? Did you believe Sherlock would hurt you? What's so different about this one?_

"NO!" John's face contorted in heartbreak, betrayal and raw fear. "God, no. Greg, please. Please, not you."

_Don't bloody panic._

_Do. Not. Panic._

_Breathe. Asses. Manage._

Greg let go of John entirely, showing him his hands before he very gently offered John the well-worn corner of his blanket. 

"James Moriarty is dead," he said gently, keeping his movements very slow, and highly predictable, "Moran is dead. Whatever you hear besides me is a hallucination." 

He put his hands to his own shoulders, trying to keep as non-threatening as possible. 

"Moriarty is dead. You watched him die. Moriarty is dead, John. You are safe." 

John looked up at Greg with such pain and utter horror that he could feel it on his face. God, he wanted to trust Greg. But the words running on a loop through his mind made that very difficult. 

_What is so different about this one? One of your friends betrayed you, why not this one? I should have him whip you. Or maybe burn. Oh! Perhaps we should start with the water._

John scrambled away from Greg and fell onto the floor. He pulled the blanket up over himself and tried to form some sort of protective barrier. 

"P-Please, Greg," he sobbed and his whole body shook violently. "I l-love y-you. I l-lo-ove y-y-" John's stomach twisted into knots and he gagged. 

A deep, horrific ache tore through Greg. John knew it was him, knew he was with Greg, and was sure Greg was going to hurt him. 

_Don't fucking panic, Greg. Don't you fucking panic._

"I love you too, John," he answered with tears stinging his eyes. He eased down off the sofa, folding his knees in front of his chest and wrapping his arms around them, back pressed against the sofa. He rest his chin on his knees and watched John, making himself as small as he could. 

"I'm going to stay right here, John. I won't come over there, okay? I'm going to sit right here. I love you. I'm not going to hurt you." 

John was in tears. He had first been tortured by Sherlock, now Greg. It tore through him worse than any dull, rusty, serrated blade ever could and he screamed in pure loss and heartache. 

He looked up at Greg, eyes pleading as Moriarty listed off the things Greg would surely be doing to him. "L-L-Lo-ove you," he stammered despite it. John believed the man he loved more than anyone, the one he needed simply to breathe properly, was coming to-

_He's going to torture you! Just like Sherlock! He'll peel off your skin and pour boiling water down your back!_

John struggled to get his limbs underneath him, and managed to crawl a few paces away to the wall, where he huddled in the corner, back flush, arms up, and blanket over his body in such a way that it would hopefully shed the scalding water. "P-Please, I-I love y-you!"

Greg could hardly breathe. Oh god, but it was agony. Who the fuck got off on this? John's terror was infectious and it was taking all Greg had to just keep in the tight ball he'd wrapped himself into, completely lost on how to comfort John, his heart splintering at John's terror of _him._

"I love you, too," he whispered, tears slowly tracking down his face, deeply pained for John. 

"Moriarty is dead, and you are home, and I love you. I love you and I would never let you be hurt. When you're ready I'll hold you and we can watch telly, or I'll read you a book, all up there on our pillows. I love you. Moriarty is dead. You're having a hallucination, John. Whatever you hear outside of my voice, it's not real. Well, the little birds are real," he added, hearing the endearing chirps from the glass window, "but there is no other person here besides you and me. I love you. I'm going to sit right here."

It took John several minutes to actually process what Greg had said. He was blinded with his own loss and pain, so much so that he felt he might die right then and there. "Greg!" John screamed, not knowing what the man would do to him, but still needing him close. 

_He's going to hurt you, just like Sherlock did._

John whimpered and pulled himself into as small a ball as he possibly could to protect the soft, tender parts of his body with the stronger limbs and muscled areas. 

"L-Love you," he stammered once more, and got up onto his hands and knees. If Greg was going to hurt him, then so be it. He would accept it, so long as the man stayed. John wept openly as he made his way over, convinced he was walking into torment but pressing on anyway. When he got to Greg, he stopped and curled into a small ball at his feet, where he could be in contact with the man who would surely hurt him but he still needed desperately. John sobbed into his blanket and tried once more to speak. "J-Just e-end it, p-please."

There was going to come a time when Greg learned to stop trusting hope. He added this day to the list of others that he'd never forgive himself for as he listened to John, watching him curl up at his feet. 

Greg moved carefully, lying down on the floor beside John and very gently reaching out, wrapping an arm around him, ensuring John stayed in his blanket. He wept with him, hating himself, hating the terror he'd subjected John to. 

What the hell had he done?

"I'm so sorry you're hurting," Greg whispered, tears tracing over his lips as he spoke. "I love you. I love you, John." He began to card his fingers lightly through John's hair, curled close and waiting it out, desperately hoping that John would come out of this. 

John screamed and flinched away from Greg when he touched him, then cried out again and held Greg closer. He was torn between fearing pain from Greg, and needed the man desperately for comfort. John had decided already that he needed Greg more than he needed not to be beaten, and he lay shuddering at the man's side in his own personal hell. Because this was hell, in every sense ofthe word. John had one person he believed he could trust, he could love, and he could be safe with, and his mind had taken that from him. 

"P-Please, d-d-don't. Please!" John held Greg's hands to him, which both ensured that the man couldn't hurt him and also wouldn't leave him. "God, please! I-I-I'm s-sorry! I l-love you! PLEASE!"

Greg was genuinely concerned he was going to sick up then and there, pale in the face of John's terror, shaken to his core. He allowed John to move his hands as he liked and just lay there, crying with John, his heart racing out of his chest as he watched helpless. 

"I don't know what to do," he whispered, heartbroken, "I don't know how to help. I won't hurt you, John, I won't hurt you. I love you. I am not going to hurt you. Please, John...please hear me." 

John slowly inched closer so he was lying beside Greg. He held the man's hands on his chest where they would neither hurt nor leave him and wept until his voice was raw and his body exhausted. John pressed himself against Greg, though he did so as a man freezing to death might touch hot metal. 

Each time it looked like he was about to wind down and exhaust himself, Moriarty would come and whisper something terrible into his ear. 

_Perhaps this one fancies you too. Perhaps he would like to have what Sherlock had. Would you like to find out?_

This set John into proper hysterics, and his breath caught in his throat as he struggled to mentally prepare himself for what was about to happen.  
Greg had no idea what to do. If he got up to get a syringe and sedate John,that would likely send him into a panic that he may take weeks to come back from, if he came back at all. He highly doubted he could get John to swallow medication. 

"John Watson, I love you. I am not going to hurt you. It's me, John, it's _Greg_. You know me. You _know me_. I'm not...John, god _please_ ," he dragged his face over his shoulder to try and clear away some of the tears, his voice heavy with grief. 

"John. Please." 

John wrestled with himself and his mind as he lay petrified. If he fled, he might escape the punishment, but he also might anger Greg. If he stayed, he would surely be beaten, but he would be able to stay with Greg, who he needed emotionally. John whimpered and slowly got to his feet. He stared at Greg, ready to fall back down to the ground and beg at any moment, and took a step back. Then another. He didn't know where he was going, but he knew he didn't want to be tortured and raped by his only friend. 

"P-Please," John stuttered and held up his hands. "I'll j-just g-go t-to bed a-and w-we can...Y-You can...Just, I'm t-tired, and I-" John couldn't explain why he didn't want to be beaten, or make an excuse for why not, and he abruptly turned and dashed into the bedroom. 

 

Greg covered his face with his hands and gave himself twenty seconds to bitterly fall apart, crying hard into his palms, shaken down to his marrow. Then he forced himself up, texting Mycroft. 

_Can you turn on the cameras in my bedroom and open a weblink so that I can watch John without going in there?_

He quietly moved down the hall, getting close enough to hear any movement from inside his room, sitting on the floor with is back to the wall, eyes closed, listening closely. If Mycroft did not answer swiftly, he would be forced to go in.

John was in the bed, under the covers. His hands were balled into fists and be wept bitterly into his blanket and tried to calm himself down. No, he would not go back out to Greg, even if he wanted to. But without Greg, how would he function? 

John was torn, and he got up out of bed. With quiet steps he walked to the door, saw the shadow that told him Greg was waiting, and fled back into the bed. 

Mycroft responded just a few minutes later with a web link. 

Greg opened the link and got up, walking away from the door and into the kitchen where he grabbed a beer. He sat down in the nest he'd made John before, curling up and watching him on his phone. What had he done? This seemed much more...he'd...god, what had he _done_? He cracked open the bottle with trembling hands and put down half the beer in one long pull, grimacing as he pulled the bottle away and curling up on his side, tears sliding down his face as he watched John. 

His John. 

Soaking in terror and fear alone in Greg's bedroom. 

All they'd done was talk...just talk...and it was as though Greg had made an error as critical as the shower. He was utterly incompetent. How had he ever believed he could help?

John took nearly an hour before he came to some sort of conclusion that even if Greg was going to hurt him, he needed to tolerate it. He had paced from the bed to the door dozens of times, screamed, cried hysterically, laid completely still and numb, and trembled violently all in turn. 

He reached the conclusion that he _had_ been dreaming prior to the 'attack' and that he was in Greg's house. That piece of data didn't quite fit his narrative of what had happened. If he was in a safe place, why would anyone be hurting him? 

John stood in the doorway, his blanket around his head and shoulders and the thick comforter held tight around him for added protection. He took small, hesitant steps and peeked around the corner. 

"Greg?"

Greg was a complete mess by the time John came down the hall. He set the phone aside, killing the link, and looked over to John with puffy, red-rimmed eyes and a pinked tipped nose. 

"John," he breathed, his heart racing, wanting to handle this right. "Oh, John...I...please, I won't hurt you. Please. Let me help. I want to help." 

John stood very still, his bare feet close together and his eyes red and sad. His breath hitched like a crying child and he wrapped his blankets tighter around himself. He was terrified, confused, and wanted comfort, but not pain. He took a tiny step forward and his lower lip trembled. 

"I'm scared," he whispered. 

Greg's expression crumpled in sympathy and he nodded, very slowly opening his arms. 

"Please come here? I made us this, remember? It's safe, and soft, and you can hide here with me. I won't let anyone hurt you. I love you." 

John wavered slightly on his feet and regarded Greg carefully. After a full minute of gathering his courage, he took one hesitant step forward. After the first, he moved in a rush until he was running to Greg. John threw himself into Greg's arms and clutched at him. 

"I-I'm c-conf-fused," he lamented pitifully. 

Greg made an audible sound of relief as he wrapped John into his arms, swiftly covering him with pillows at his back, burrowing them into the nest he'd made. 

"I know you are," he whispered as he settled them, "I know. It was a dream and then you've been in a bit of a hallucination since then. I love you. I won't hurt you. I would _never ever_ hurt you. I love you." He made sure John was surrounded with pillows and his blanket, wanting him to feel warm and secure. 

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," John nestled in to Greg as the last of his nightmare faded and he was left exhausted, but in a basic understanding of what had happened.  
"I thought...Oh, god, I thought..." John wrapped his arms around Greg's chest and pressed his face down to cry. "I thoughty-you were going to...He said you had water, and hips and-" John shook his head and melted into the warmth of being loved.

Greg very suddenly gagged as he caught John's meaning. He'd been feeling sick since this all had started, and that nearly brought back the beer. 

"Oh god," he whispered, holding John tighter to him, "oh god that must have been...been terrible. Oh, my John, I'm...god I'm so sorry that you were hearing that. Jesus. Please don't be sorry, it's not your fault-" his stomach heaved again and he went very quiet, trying to breathe through it. He'd been through hell with John but nothing had set him dry heaving. 

"I love you, I'm so sorry that happened." 

"That's why I ran. I was in your room, and he kept _saying things_." John shuddered and tried to continue speaking. 

"H-he said that you might want what Sherlock-" John put his hand over his mouth and shook his head. 

"I can't. H-He started with the whips, and water, and knives, but then said you'd want what Sherlock had and I ran and he kept talking and it was hurting me and I wanted to come back to you but every time he would say that you were going to-to- and I hid again." 

Greg did not trust himself to speak, so he just held John to him, deeply, deeply relieved that John had come back. He pressed his cheek to the crown of John's head, crying quietly, useless to help. After several long minutes, he whispered heavy and slow, "Neither Sherlock or I would ever do that to you, John. Never. Never. They...they did that to him too, he would never hurt you like that. I would never-" he went quiet as his mouth began to water, breathing slow again to try and calm his stomach. 

"I know. I know. I'm trying. I-" John tried to manually slow his breathing to something less chaotic. 

"He said it was like Sherlock. How you would beat me too, even though we're friends. Please don't. If I do something wrong, just tell me, and I'll fix it. He said ‘Perhaps this one fancies you too' and I-I panicked. Please don't be upset with me." 

Greg's heart dropped out and twisted hard, nearly making him black out. He swiftly, though very carefully, shifted John off of him and narrowly made it to the bin at the other side of the sitting, dropping to his knees and violently sicking up. John was _lucid_ and still thought Greg would beat him. 

All that work, that effort, that fucking worthless _hope_. 

His stomach was trying to turn itself inside out as he heaved, shaking with tears rolling down his face, broken down to the core. Finally it slowed, leaving him shaking, narrowly sitting with his back to the wall, eyes closed as he tried to breathe through the end of it. 

John went to Greg's side and dug his hands into his own hair. He pulled violently and clenched his teeth as fear and worry sawed at him. 

"Sorry! I'm sorry! I'm so so sorry. I love you. I'm sorry. What's wrong? Please, tell me what is wrong! I love you! Please," John went over everything he had said in the past few minutes to find what was wrong.  
"What was it? Please tell me what I did. Please. I'm sorry. Greg, _I'm sorry_."

Greg shook his head, holding up a hand to stop John. 

"Not your fault," he whispered, not trusting his stomach. He swallowed and whispered again, eyes still closed. "'M going to stand up and take this out,” he said of the fowl bin, “and then I'm going to rinse my mouth out, and then we can go back to the sofa. I'm not going t- hurt you, k? Just...l-let me get this out of here." 

He slowly stood up, legs shaking hard, and picked up the small bin before walking through the kitchen and opening the back door, setting the bin and all in the main trash. Fuck the container, he'd get a new one. He closed and locked the door before going into the kitchen. 

"Just rinsing my mouth, you'll hear water, that's why." He turned the tap on very low, filled his palm, and rinsed and spat twice, forcing himself to eat a peppermint as he killed the taps and walked back into the sitting room with John, going for the sofa. 

"Please just c-come sit with me. You don't have any reason to be sorry. Please. I'm not upset with you." Fucking _christ_ , were they all the way back to this? John's faith and trust in him evaporated so easily?

John was exhausted, tired, confused and utterly broken. He curled up on the couch in a position that was reasonably comfortable and safe for attacks, but sat up and opened his arms when Greg approached. 

"I made you sad again, didn't I?" John's tone was so self hating that it held more resentment than when he spoke of Moriarty. 

"I did, didn't I? Which part made you sad? Was it when I told you what he said? About the water? Or how he said you might fancy me? Or want what Sherlock had? I'll stop telling you what he says. I don't like to hear it. I shouldn't make you hear it too."

Greg shook his head. They were back. Nearly all the way back. That's where they were. Thrown back _months_ of painstaking effort. 

"I'm sad that you believe I'd hurt you. I don't want you to stop telling me, I want you to talk to me. I'm trying to figure out where I went wrong, what I did. I...I'm not upset with you. I love you. None of this is your fault, I failed somewhere, I'm trying to find exactly where I screwed up."

John shook his head and fought against his own exhaustion that pulled his mind down into an ineffective slump. 

"You didn't do anything wrong. I was being stupid. I heard him saying things, and I believed him. I know that's wrong. I know. I know I shouldn't be listening to him, but he's so _loud_ sometimes. It wasn't your fault. I just...I just need to learn better." 

Greg eased John back to his chest and wrapped him up once more, heavy with defeat. It was pointless. He'd not do any good in the long run. How had he manage to fuck up so spectacularly? 

"Just rest," Greg whispered dejectedly, sliding his fingers through John's hair, bordering tears again himself. 

He'd been so bloody optimistic. 

"I love you."

John turned and wrapped himself around Greg. With his body still shaking lightly from the force of his previous panic and exhaustion, combined with his occasionally hitching breath and frightened posture, John looked and felt pitiful. "I love you," he returned and closed his eyes. 

"I'm going to sleep...I'm sorry I panicked. I'll...I'll do better next time..."

Greg swallowed thick and whispered to John as he carded his fingers lightly through his hair. "I love you. Everything is fine." 

Greg tried to shove down the hopelessness. They'd made so many breakthroughs, maybe this was just another small setback and he'd be alright after a nap, or at the very least not back to begging Greg mercy, thinking that Greg would hurt him. He could deal with any of John's panic so long as John wasn't afraid of _Greg_ , but that...that wasn't the case. John was scared of him. It broke his heart to bits. John still thought...thought that Greg would...nausea rolled over him again and he had to divert his thoughts, slowly starting to recite song lyrics in his head just to keep steady. 

John fell down hard into an exhausted sleep. He was terrified of his own mind, guilty for having hurt Greg, and ready for the day to just be _over_. He slept for several hours, as his mind deemed consciousness far too demanding at the moment.

Greg let himself cry quietly after John had been down for a while. He finally tumbled down into sleep as well, rocked hard, down and defeated. He slept shallow, tuned to any movement from John. 

John woke himself up a few times simply to check on Greg, and each time he curled a bit closer. He was over stressed, but beginning to understand what had happened. The third time John woke up, he took a moment to appreciate Greg, how he always made it through the fallouts, even when John didn't think he could do so himself. John brushed Greg's hair back and pressed a soft kiss to his cheek before curling back up again. 

Greg cracked his eyes open when he felt John touch his face. He shifted slightly and took a moment to feel how John was laying against him. He didn't seem tense as he had been. 

"John," he whispered cautiously, very gently touching his arm.

John settled against Greg and gave a small nod. "I'm alright now. I'm not scared anymore. I'm better, just tired. My mind feels sore." John took Greg's hand and brought it to his lips. 

"Sorry if I was a pain."

Greg nearly cried in relief, wrapping John back up tight in his arms and burying his face against the top of John's head. For a long time he said nothing, focused on his breathing and dizzy with relief.

Finally he drew back slightly and whispered, "You were not a pain," his throat so tight it heavily bogged down his voice, eyes stinging despite himself. "I love you."

John shuddered with the sheer pleasure of not being in pain and he closed his eyes once more. "I didn't mean to be afraid of you. I'm sorry. I know that makes you sad. I'm not afraid of you anymore though."

Greg nodded and squeezed John again, desperately trying to bring himself back down, scared that tears on his face would frighten John. "It's ok," he whispered, "not your fault. You didn't do anything wrong."

John was deeply ashamed of himself. "I should know better. I know you won't hurt me, I know you wouldn't burn or cut me, but he just kept saying things and I couldn't think. I don't know why my brain always listens to him. Probably because that's what I learned works." 

John sniffled and wiped his eyes. "H-He said that you were like Sherlock, and you would hurt me just like he did. He said...but you don't _fancy_ me, and you wouldn't hurt me to get what you wanted. I know that. He just...It's hard not to believe him, even when he says bad things."

Greg shifted so that they were both on their sides, John with his back against the sofa cushions, his head cradled on Greg's arm. He brushed his fingers through John's hair and pressed his lips gently to John's forehead. 

"Please don't be upset with yourself. It's not your fault. What was done to you is not your fault. I love you, and I'm so sorry today was scary, I really am. I wish I could have helped. Please don't be so hard on yourself." 

He could not help the way his eyes burned or his vision blurred, but he was doing his damnedest to keep John calm and to soothe him. 

John had recovered mentally from his shock, but his body was still exhausted for it. John leaned his head back and closed his eyes. "I made you throw up," he said quietly in a voice full of self-loathing. 

"Just because he was speaking to me. Why can't I ignore him?"

It hadn't been from what John was hearing, but rather what John believed him capable of. It had recalled to the front of Greg's mind the sheer, cold-fish-oil sick terror that had dripped down his spine when John had accused him of holding him down so Paul could have at him. He exhaled slowly and shook his head, trailing gentle fingers down John's face. 

"He hurt you terribly," Greg whispered, heavy with worry and self-loathing, "and you've been doing a lot of work to get past it. I think you got tired? Maybe you got tired and it just happened. It's...it's okay, John. It wasn't because he was talking to you. It's okay, we're okay. You seem very tired, we can just rest. I shouldn't have pushed you over Sherlock. I'm...I'm sorry, John. I'm sorry." 

John let out a soft, dejected whine and closed his eyes. "I'm sorry. I know I don't have to be, but I am. I don't like causing you pain. I should have controlled it better. I know you won't hurt me. I love you and I will always trust you...when I'm lucid. When I got confused, I don't know what is right." 

When John was in terror, his mind fell back go the protective mechanisms that it had used before. If he accepted that everyone would hurt him, no matter who it was, he could prepare himself for the eventual torture. His emotional deviatation at Sherlock's betrayal had left a heavy gash on his mind.

Greg nuzzled in with John, curling him close and closing his eyes. "I'm just glad you're back and you're not still scared of me. You are battling very difficult things, and confusion is more than understandable. I love you. It's okay if I hurt with you sometimes, John." 

The relief at John's full command of language, of his lucidity and self-awareness, was nearly overwhelming. He relaxed his body and carried on sweeping his fingers through John's hair, trying to soothe him.  
"You came back. That's all I need is for you to keep coming back to me." 

John was mildly alarmed by a thought his own mind produced, and he tightened his hold on Greg. 

"I'll always come back. I promise. If I don't, then please, don't give up on me. I'll come around. Please?"

Greg leaned back and looked at John, worrying his lower lip between his teeth. John's presumed return to how he'd been months ago terrified Greg and made him seriously question whether he'd be able to endure repeating the entire process. 

"I will never leave you," he assured, because he damn well would not ever leave John. If he gave up, he'd take them both down together. 

"I won't ever leave you. I promise." 

John was greatly reassured by the words and he kissed Greg on the cheek. 

"I don't know how you do it. I know what it feels like to have someone think you hurt them. Sherlock thought I sent doctors and that was awful. I can't imagine what it must be like for you to endure me flying off the handle at every little thing." 

John gave a small nod and resolved in his mind not do do it again. 

"I'll do better next time. I promise. I'll tell you what he is saying and you'll tell me why it isn't true. That might help."

They'd done just that, and it had failed. Greg refrained from saying so. John was...that had been fucking terrible, were he honest. Each time John knew he was with Greg, and was still terrified him, it cut something deep and irreparable in his chest, reminding him that he continuously failed to present himself as safety to John, as love. Nothing he did was going to be sufficient. 

_All well in keeping with the status queue _, he thought to himself, giving John a small smile.__

__"Okay, John. We'll do that."_ _

__John could see that Greg was still sad, but attributed it to residual distress over his episode. "Things will get better," John muttered as he tucked himself down to sleep._ _

__"I'll learn how to not panic, and I'll fight it better. These won't happen as often, and I'll be better at managing them when they do." It was startling clarity compared to what he had just been through, but he was a bit too tired to maximize on it._ _

__Greg ran his hands through John's hair and settled him better against him. "You're doing fine, John. You're better with this all the time. I love you, just rest."_ _

__He was tempted to hope, but he refused to allow it. He'd done something that had caused this, and now he had no way to move forward. They had to address Sherlock, but John...how could he risk that again? John obviously believed on a deep level that Greg would hurt him. How...how could he endure that over and over? Perhaps he had to anyhow. Sherlock and John endured horrific treatment. For the first time in a while, Greg was reminded that his purpose here was transport, and that it was fine if he ran into the ground. It wasn't about him._ _

__"Just rest. I've got you."_ _


	21. Chapter 21

\---------------------------------------------------------------------------

At four am the second day of Sherlock's induced coma, Miller texted Mycroft. 

_He's holding steady, not fighting the vent, heart is unremarkable. So far, so good._

 

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Greg snapped awake just as the sun was coming up, startling hard out of a horrific dream. He immediately hugged John to him, pressing his face down into John's hair and breathing deep, his heart racing in his chest. He breathed in slow and deep, regaining his composure, assuring himself that John was there and breathing and alright. 

John woke when Greg moved him and took in the man's forced even breathing. "You alright?" John's eyes were bleary with sleep, and he was still a bit emotionally drained, though physically rested and mentally stable. 

Greg nodded, calmed further by John's lucid state. He made himself ease his grip, leaning back and running a hand over his face. "Dream. I'm fine. I did not intend to wake you up, I'm sorry." He blinked the sleep from his eyes and looked around the room from where he lay, noticing the first rays of light on the ceiling. 

John needed a feeding and likely fluids as well, and Greg had failed to give him his medication or otherwise properly care for him. 

"I forgot your meds last night. I'm going to go get them for you. Can I get you anything else while I up?"

John was both hungry and thirsty, which stressed him mildly. He stood up and held his hands out to Greg. 

"Can I come with you?" 

He didn't want to walk into anything frightening, but he thought it would be a better way of getting used to the house.   
Greg looked up in surprise and took John's hands. "Yeah John, of course. You never have to ask." He pointed to the bedroom and headed that way, running a hand over his hair and shuffling his feet, glad to be home. When they got into the bedroom Greg walked over and tipped out the medications John needed to keep healthy, eyeing the feeding tube that would connect to the one in John's nose. 

"Think you can try a bit of food with your tea today?"

John stayed a step behind Greg so he could be close to him and see him as they walked. 

"Food? Well...I can try...But I don't know if it will be enough. I need a tube either way. I'm sort of hungry." 

It was a step for him to say it, but Greg was a safe person who he could ask anything. 

"I don't know. I'll try. I just don't want to disappoint you."

Incredibly sensitive to being pared in the same group as Moriarty and Moran, Greg felt the words like a physical blow, glad his back was to John. He cleared his throat and nodded. 

"Let me cook something for you? Bit of eggs? A nice cuppa? It's just me, and we are home." 

He tried to keep his expression easy and calm, turning back to look at John with a small smile. He handed him the medication and waved off the tube. 

"I know it won't be enough, but...but it will be some day, maybe soon, and if you're hungry it will be easier to eat." 

John took his medication dry and kept himself close to Greg. He had always scoffed at couples in the streets who insisted on being plastered to each other's sides as they walked, but John found himself leaning into Greg for safety and comfort even when nothing was happening. This was different, of course. He was a traumatized victim of torture and Greg was the only one he trusted, but it still gave light to how dependant he had become. 

"I'll try whatever you want me to."

Greg wrapped his arm around John and pulled him in for a gentle hug. He breathed in deep and then whispered softly, "I would never hurt you. You're safe. I just want to help." 

His throat closed up tight on him and he stepped back, taking John's hand and leading him into the kitchen, sitting John down at the table. He slowly went through the motions of making John a cup of tea, needing John to be around water as much as possible. He desperately needed washing. They absolutely had to break past the fear of water above everything else. 

He put the cuppa down in front of John, a bit of ice melting at the center to cool it, and went in on preparing to make eggs. All the while he chatted to John, recounting a case he and Sherlock had solved that was quite humorous, avoiding using anything but plastic and wood to cook with, never showing a blade or metal, keeping the flames under the pot out of John's sight. 

"And then you idiots let that box of doves loose in my sodding office," he said with a smile, finishing off the story as he set a small plate with likely half an egg, down in front of John, plastic fork and a napkin at the side. Greg sat opposite with his own food, tucking in straight away, utterly famished.   
John kept his eyes down and away from the stove. He stared at his hands in front of him, folded on the table, and ignored the fact that there was water boiling inside him. He could handle that. It was just boiling water. It didn't always mean pain. Sometimes it meant tea. 

John dug his nails into the back of his opposite hand and listened to Greg's story. 

"I remember that. Sherlock always had the strangest way of solving things. He can look like a lunatic, walking around, staring at things, smelling things, never once explaining what he's doing until after the fact." 

John's voice was tight and he kept his eyes locked on the table. 

Yes, there was boiling water, but no, it would not be dumped on him. 

Greg stared at John and then looked back around the kitchen, a bite of egg halfway to his mouth. John was stressed. Deeply. 

"Would you rather be in the sitting room? We can move, I'll carry your tea and eggs in there..." he swept his eyes back over the room, trying to find the source of John's distress. He'd put away the pan, the tea was made, the knives were away. 

"Or I could make you something else? Toast or...something..." 

"Whatever you want," John breathed and kept his eyes down. No, the boiling water was not for him. It was not. It was for tea. He liked tea. 

John abruptly stood and left the kitchen. He sat down on the couch and pulled his knees up to his chest. "Can we eat in here? Yeah, let's eat in here."

Greg blinked in surprise but swiftly recovered, getting up and leaving his own food, collecting John's plate and tea and bringing it to him in the sitting room, before going back for his own food. He sat down beside John and left his things on the table as well, running a gentle hand over John's back. 

"Hey, talk to me. Let me help. What's going on in your head?"

John set his chin on his knees and gave Greg a weary, sad look. "There is boiling water in there. I'm sorry. I know I could deal with it, but I'm tired. I'd rather get used to water that isn't painful first. I don't like boiling water." 

John wiped his eyes and took a deep breath. 

"I really don't like boiling water."

Greg looked back to the kitchen and then to John. 

"I took it off the burner straight away, didn't really even get it boiling, but that's...that's okay. I'm sorry, maybe a bit too fast. But it's gone now. Nothing hot is going on in the kitchen, it's all set away. I won't hurt you. I swear, John. I'd never hurt you."

"No, it's fine. I just get unsettled. It's stupid. I'm alright, I just got a bit scared."   
John ran his fingers back through Greg's hair affectionately and gave him a small half smile.   
"I'm okay. I just didn't want to be in the same room as it. I know I could, but I'm tired, and don't feel like getting used to it today."

Greg could not help leaning into that blissful touch from John, always savoring moments where John could comfort him, even if just for a moment. 

"Okay, John. Not today. It's not stupid though. Tell me if you like the eggs, I've not cooked in a long while." 

Eggs were something of a specialty for Greg, one of the few staples he cooked that he took pride in. They were fluffy and light, perfectly settled without being runny or dry. He desperately wanted John to like them. 

John wanted to enjoy food. He wanted to be over all this mess and move on with his life. For the first time in ages, he felt as if he could. Before, when he had been so locked in terror, he hadn't seen that as an option. Now, after tasting tea and getting better at basic needs, he could foresee an end. 

"I'm sure I will. I'm glad you're letting me live with you. I just realized I haven't properly said thank you for everything, you know, feeding me, helping me stay calm, and giving me my medicine. So, thank you." He smiled at Greg then looked down at his hands. 

Greg smiled easy at John then. "'Course, John. You're welcome." 

He picked up his own plate and tucked in, speaking around a mouthful, "Sorry, bit hungry," he'd nearly said _starving_ , but that would be obscene while sitting next to John Watson. Still, he shoveled his eggs into his mouth, several meals behind already. They were still warm, though on the cooler side, but they were loaded with protein and would help keep him full longer.

John watched Greg eat and burned how harmless and beneficial the action was. If Greg could do it, so could he. 

Easy. 

Simple. 

John took the first bite of eggs and forced himself to breathe. They tasted marvelous, which was incredibly helpful. 

"Thank you," John said and tried to smile. "They're great. If I get stressed, can I tell you what's happening and you tell me what to do?"

Greg smiled and nodded to John even as he chewed his food, already somewhat settled from having put something in his stomach. When he swallowed he spoke. 

"Yeah, John, of course." 

It might not go down that way, but at least John was trying to make it work, was trying to stay present and focused, and he'd seemed to be okay with the eggs. That was huge, and it helped ease some of the weight off Greg's heavy heart. 

John went very slowly. He took toddler sized bites with the very end of his fork and took often breaks to breathe. Panic swelled in him, but he found that the recent breakthrough with the tea had helped him see a possible end to all this terror. It was with this in mind that he forced himself onward until he had almost finished his small plate. 

"I'm getting nervous," John said in a tense voice. "Just scared. No voice. Just scared."

Greg nodded and slipped an arm around John's back, holding him gently to his side. "Tell yourself what's going to happen when you're done with your food. You're going to feel better for eating. I'm going to clean up while you drink your tea. We are going to curl up on this sofa and watch telly. That's what happens when you are done. Tell yourself what happens when you're done eating."

Perhaps if John walked himself through it, he could calm down. Greg watched him closely, hoping against hope that it didn't make him worse.

"W-When I'm done eating," John began, and shook his head when Moriarty finished the sentence for him. "When I am done eating I will be safe. Greg will keep me safe and we can watch telly." 

He ran his fingers back through his hair and let his cheeks puff out in a heavy exhale. 

"And I'll have tea which isn't really water so it doesn't hurt me and I'll be alright."

Greg nodded and nudged John's shoulder. "Again, John. Say it again. Make that bastard in your head shut his trap and tell him what's what. Tell him how wrong he is." 

John began to argue with the voice in his mind, countering it's statements with his own. Moriarty was increasingly difficult to ignore, mainly because listening to Moriarty had been the only surefire way to keep himself out of pain. Believing Moriarty had been the only way he could save himself. 

Thus, when Moriarty told John that Greg was going to boil water and make him drink it, it shook the poor, tortured man despite his logical knowledge that Greg would _never_ hurt him. 

"I'm going to...We're going to watch telly, and everything will be fine." John gave a small nod. 

Greg was proud that the stutter had fallen away and John seemed to be in charge of his mind for the moment. "You've a few more bites, can you manage them? I'd like you to try. You'll feel fantastic with that tube out. Let's get you used to eating. You've got this, John. And then we will just relax. That's it. Keep telling that Irish idiot to shut his gob." 

John cuddled up against Greg and smiled up at him. There was just a bit left, and he pressed on. 

John was determined to get over this. He wanted freedom. He couldn't be free if he was still a slave to his own mind. "Moriarty is an ass. A selfish, ignorant, mean little prick."

Greg nodded, "And a dead one at that. Fuck the little bastard, he's nothing. He doesn't matter. Do you like the eggs? I like cooking eggs, got a bit good at it if I say so myself. Afraid I'm a bit of a one hit wonder there, not good at much else in the kitchen." 

He laughed slightly and pressed a warm kiss to the side of John's head, smiling. "Proud of you," he whispered, nudging John again. 

John absolutely loved the affection he received when he ate and it only reaffirmed the association of food and happiness that was slowly beginning to catch up on the pain association. 

"You're a good cook. I can cook, eventually. I'm sure. I'll get used to it and then I can cook for you."

Greg winked at him. "Good, it's a deal. I'll be sick of eggs soon I'm sure and then will tire of take away." He kept his tone playful and joking, trailing his fingers through John's hair, scratching lightly at the back of his neck. 

"I've icecream in the icebox, maybe we can have a go at that later." 

He smirked and kissed John's temple again, laying the attention on thick, loving that John was responding well. 

John grinned up at Greg in a blissful sort of way. His panic and nervousness at having eaten melted away under Greg's warmth and he hummed happily. 

"Okay. I'll try it. I used to like icecream. Maybe I still will." John leaned down and rested his head on Greg's lap, so he could look up at him. 

Greg beamed down at John and picked up one of his hands. "I'm also rather good at this, remember? You liked it last time." 

He started in on the meat of John's palm, careful fingers starting to massage into the tissue, gentle and warm, just trying to soothe and comfort him. 

"I love having you here. It's nice, and telly is much more interesting with another bloke who finds humor in a fella whacking himself with a rake." He chuckled and pressed a kiss to the back of John's hand, carrying on with the careful massage.

John's eyes closed and he continued to hum happily. It felt wonderful to be massaged. His hands were tormented and stiff, which made the action all the more comforting. With a pleasant grin on his face, John basked in the warm, happy glow of being peacefully at home with someone he loved. 

"I love being here. I am so glad you're helping me. You're a saint. An absolute saint."

Greg laughed and smiled back at John. "Don't think I've been called that one before. I'll take it. I love you. This is just...yeah it's really good. Telly?" 

He clicked on the box and then carried on working his hands over John's, letting the light-hearted film roll while he spent nearly a full hour just on one hand and arm, paying very close attention to the way John reacted to each new place he was touching and the sort of pressure he was using. John was going to learn that food and drink were wonderful, positive things. He was bound and determined of it.

John's attention changed from Greg, to his hands working, and to the telly. Greg's face was wonderful to watch while he was relaxed, and John never thought that he would be as comfortable as he was now. If he had known during his time with Moriarty that this was what was waiting for him on the other side, it likely would have fueled him to hold on for far longer. While Greg worked on his hand and arm, John made soft noises of contentment; hums, sighs, and the occasional compliment or expression of gratitude. 

Greg smiled at John at the end of the hour and slid his hand through his hair. 

"Alright, another cuppa for you, and a few bites of ice cream, and then I'll do the other side, yeah? If you don't like the ice cream of if it makes you uncomfortable, you don't have to eat it. No one should ever be made to eat ice cream." 

He laughed at that, smirking at John for a moment before gently budging him up. "If you'd rather, I have juice in there as well. Orange, apple, and grape -the white sort- and you can have any of it. Oh yeah, and milk, that's there too. Mycroft stocked it up well. What would you like?"

John sat up and flexed the fingers on his hand. He swiveled his wrist and smiled when it felt much less stiff, and almost tingly from the increased circulation. His appreciation for Greg soared once more and he wrapped his arms around his neck happily. 

"You're wonderful, Greg. I'll have a cuppa and some ice cream. You're fantastic. I love you."

Greg made a rumbling sort of happy sound from the center of his chest, wrapping John up in his arms and holding him tight for a moment. If massaging him helped that much, then he'd gladly add it to the mix. "I love you too," he said warmly, kissing John's cheek before untangling. 

He got up and hurried to the kitchen, pouring John a warm cup from the kettle and adding sugar as John liked, along with a bit of milk. The icecream was easy packed in little individual containers, complete with an absurd, tiny plastic 'spoon' affixed to the top. really more of a stick with a dip on one end, but it would likely be perfect for John. He grabbed a plain vanilla one for John and one for himself, returning swiftly and sitting down flush against him. 

"Look at these absurd little things," he said with a laugh, peeling off his 'spoon' and holding it between thumb and pointer. 

John laughed at the ridiculous little spoon and reached out to take his container. 

"Looks like they were trying to save by cutting back on plastic," he remarked and held the thin piece up to the light. It was nearly see through. John started with the ice cream and prayed to God that it didn't frighten him. Perhaps if he focused on the telly and ate with an absent mind, like a normal person, he could get through with minimal difficulties. 

The first bite was sweet and cold, just as John remembered. Once again, he was struck with the notion that this would eventually be a pleasurable thing and it showed him a light at the end of the darkness.

"Kinda nice," Greg said with the spoon still flat on his tongue, talking around it, "give you just the right amount, doesn't it?" He shifted so that they were touching from shoulder to hip. 

Greg pointed to the telly with his spoon. "He's up for a new romance film soon. Used to do all those action movies. Suppose the romance pictures are where the coin is." 

He didn't really care, but he wanted to keep John eating. God, how wonderful would it be to finally, fucking _finally_ have that tube out? 

"I prefer the action ones myself, though the romances do pay better. I suppose if a good looking bloke makes his name with action, it's only a matter of time before they drag him into a romance." 

John watched the felt and continued to eat his icecream. 

"I'm going to be able to eat on my own and drink on my own. I know it. It's good, which means I've got a reason to do it that doesn't make it seem like a burden." 

John was speaking articulately, eating, and successfully keeping the panic at bay. 

Greg looked over at John with a wide, beaming smile, spoon still on his lips, looking much like a goofy idiot. 

"That's right, you will, and if I have to ply you with icecream and cakes, then icecream and cakes you'll have."

He winked and looked back to the telly, the strain of the day before rapidly easing. This was highly, highly encouraging. He wasn't going to say a damned thing about Sherlock at the moment. First water and food, and then they'd get back into that. 

John felt an overwhelming sense of hope as he sat there on Greg's couch, eating ice cream and being loved. He had come so far from the panicked, pained man that Sherlock had carried out of that warehouse, or the mistrusting patient in the mental ward who couldn't even hear Sherlock's name. 

Even though he took tiny bites and frequent breaks, John was making a dent in his ice cream. 

"Mrs. Hudson used to make the best cakes and muffins. Pies too. Maybe we could ask her to make us some. She likes company."

Greg quite liked that idea. "That's brilliant! She'd love to see you, has tried a few times but it wasn't on. Sweet thing. She'd make you anything you asked for. Loves you lot. We'll keep that in mind for whenever you're ready. Great idea though, John, really." 

He smiled at him warmly and leaned in to steal a swift, playful kiss to John's temple before tucking back into his food, occasionally breaking for tea. Miller was going to be thrilled that John was even trying to eat.

John giggled happily at the added attention he got from Greg and continued with the icecream. After a moment he stopped and stared at his tea, internally gathering up the courage to just take a sip instead of keeping it far away from his nose with a straw. 

With difficulty that would have looked strange to anyone who didn't know the situation, John brought the cup to his lips and took a small sip. 

He immediately put it back down and took a gasping breath, just to remind himself that he could breathe. 

Greg noticed all of this, but chose not to remark on it. The more normal he could keep the situation the better, he figured. He put his ice cream down and picked up his own tea, sipping at it lightly. 

"Does your hand feel better?" Perhaps if he reminded John what was coming next, it would help get him through it. 

John decided that while it wasn't as normal to drink tea with a straw, that's how he would get used to it. "Oh, yeah, my hand feels great. You're quite the expert on that." John took another bite of his ice cream and found that the flavor of his tea and vanilla worked well together.   
Greg beamed at him, wildly relieved to have done something useful for once. 

"That's grand. I'm happy to do it." His own scar from the bullet he'd caught all that time ago ached all the time, he couldn't imagine the discomfort John must constantly be in, and was deeply glad the doctors had no intention of taking him off pain medication.

John put his ice cream down and flexed both hands. The dexterity in the fingers of the hand that Greg had worked on had improved, and it was clear from the way he moved them that they were far less sore. "You're a saint," he responded once more and picked up his tea again.

"I'm going to tell Saint Peter you said as much when I get there, yeah? Might let me in after all." He shifted slightly closer to John, warmth in his belly at having helped. It was brilliant. He was actually doing something useful, and John had a belly full of eggs and icecream, and was on his second cuppa of tea. He nearly wanted to pinch himself to make sure he was awake. It was so far from the day before he could scarcely believe it. 

John ended up finishing his ice cream, and had never been so proud to finish a treat in his life. He smiled at Greg and elation shown on his face. 

"I did it," he exclaimed, "FINALLY!" He put the little cup down and laughed in excitement. "Yes!"

Greg pulled John into an excited hug, flush with endorphins, nearly high on John's triumph. 

"You are _brilliant_! Well done, John, congratulations!" God, he was proud. He let John go, leaning back enough to look at him, hardly believing it. 

"Oh, you're brilliant. I'm so proud of you I could burst. John! This is huge!" 

John hugged Greg back and swore he had never been happier. "I'm eating! And I'm drinking! And I'm not panicking or crying like before!" He was so damn happy he could have burst. John saw the end to his torment finally, and it was a massive weight off his shoulders. 

"I'm going to be okay. I'm going to be alright in the end."

Greg held on to him for a long while, soaking in the rare moment of elation and relief. He closed his eyes and rocked John slightly as they sat side by side, basking in triumph. 

"You are going to be alright in the end. Yes. You are going to be so, so alright in the end." 

He let them stay that way for many minutes before he shifted John, maneuvering clumsily until they'd swapped sides. "I promised to do your other arm, here," he handed John the clicker, "you find what we watch next, yeah?"

John handed Greg his arm happily and surfed through the channels. "I didn't think this would ever end before. When you and the others kept trying to get me to live, I thought you meant through that. I never once even considered that I'd be in your house, safe, warm, without any pain or fear, eating and drinking while my arm gets massaged. I thought it would be a hospital bed with restraints just in case I panicked for the rest of my life. I get it now, though. I get why you wanted me to live. Thanks for helping me get here."

Greg stopped moving for a moment, frozen in place by that statement. He closed his eyes and swallowed hard, quietly pulling John up in his arms and hugging him like he was the most precious man alive. "Thank you," he breathed, nearly overcome with relief, "thank you." It was clear that to John it was just a simple moment of gratitude, but to Greg, it was momentous. 

After a moment of indulging his relief, he eased John back down into his lap, taking up John's hand and carefully starting to massage the stiff tissue. 

John loved it when Greg hugged him. He loved the way it made him seem important, loved and valued, after so long of being treated worse than a dog. Here was someone who loved him, treasured him, and cared for him.

"Greg, you are the most important person in my life. You saved my life so many times and in so many ways. I'll never be able to repay you for that."

Greg smiled at him, hardly trusting his voice, more happy than he could ever remember being in the last few years. Only the births of his children had compared. 

"It's free. No repayment necessary," he whispered honestly, pressing the back of John's hand to his lips and closing his eyes. He felt the hot slide of a tear and smiled broadly, shaking his head and dashing a hand across his face. 

"Got me so happy I'm leaking," he said with a gentle smile, nearly dizzy with the flood of relief. 

John looked up at the ceiling and laughed. "God, we needed this. Let's do this often. I'm glad I could finish the food. And I'm on my second cup of tea!" It sounded a bit childish, but damnit, John was excited. He'd not drank anything properly in ages, or at least, not without pain. 

John smiled over at Greg and suddenly flung both arms around him. "Thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you!" He kissed him on the cheek dozens of times and repeated the phrase over and over again until he was satisfied that Greg got the basic concept of his gratitude. 

Greg could do nothing more than laugh, hugging John and accepting the deeply, deeply needed affection. He was running on fumes, nearly empty, enduring and enduring while giving and giving, and he'd honestly be dead and gone at the end of it all. Now the dreaded whisper of hope was shouting an anthem to him, John grateful, optimistic, and thanking him, honestly happy Greg had dragged him through it all. His cheeks were wet from relieved tears and he laughed with John, nearly drowning in warmth. 

When John was finished drowning Greg in happy kisses and ecstatic expressions of gratitude, he leaned his head down on Greg's shoulder and closed his eyes. "If you ever get sad, you can tell me. I owe you so much. If you ever need help, I can help."

Greg hummed at the offer, hugging John close before letting him go and easing him back down. He took up his hand and started in on massaging his fingers, working slowly and carefully, letting the afternoon pass with them wrapped up on the sofa comfortably, waiting for the dinner hour.

John tilted his head back and relaxed. It was so wonderful to had a healing and soothing touch at his hands after such a victory. John found a documentary about dolphins on the telly and watched the playful creatures blow rings for themselves to swim through and do flips in the air. 

Greg spent hours with John, touching him constantly, wanting him to associate the day with food and comfort. When the day grew late, he finally stretched and thought of the stew in the fridge.

"Alright you, I'm going to make a bit of super. Just going to heat it up." He hoped a bit of comfort food would soothe John still. He could simply microwave it, no stove needed.

John was practically drooling. Perfectly content, he grinned up at Greg and nodded. "Alright. You go get something to eat. You're probably hungry." He stretched out his arms and smiled once again. 

"You're brilliant. Thank you." 

Greg pressed a kiss to the side of John's head and got up, moving into the kitchen and thinking swiftly. John obviously did not want to eat anymore and Greg was not going to push it. Over the next few minutes he warmed up the stew, careful to add more liquid than meat and potatoes, and gathered a bit of applesauce, ice cream, bread, and cheese, as well as a beer for himself and a little silver pouch of juice for John, going ahead and poking a straw through the little opening. 

"Alright," he said warmly when he walked back in, two spoons on the tray that he settled on the coffee table, "you can have any or none of this. I just wanted you to have the option." 

He again pressed a kiss to John's head and settled in flush against him, picking up the bowl of stew and tucking in. He'd take this slow and easy, and was highly curious how it would play out. 

John didn't want to eat again. He'd already gotten through eggs and ice cream without dissolving into tears, and he didn't want to ruin his day of clarity with added stress. "I'm not really hungry anymore. Thank you for helping me."

John tucked himself into Greg's side, and through he was rather curled in on himself, he wasn't afraid or uncomfortable. 

"How long can I live like this?"

Greg wasn't going to push it at all. If John didn't want to eat, then he wouldn't eat. He left it alone and carried on eating as John tucked against him. 

"What do you mean? The offer for you to move here doesn't have an expiration date, you can stay as long as you like, John."

John stopped, eyes going wide, and looked over at Greg. When had this shift occurred? How had John not noticed such a massive difference in his own mind? 

His previous goal had been to die. Then after that, he wanted to help Sherlock and Greg, then die. It was the only way he could see himself being free from the pain. But now, with the food tasting good and an end to his pain in sight, there was another horizon for him to reach for. 

"Greg, can I stay with you forever? I don't want to die. I want to do this. As in, for years."

Greg very slowly set his bowl down and looked over at John, his heart galloping in his chest. "Oh, god yes," Greg whispered, reaching down and pulling John into his arms, nearly overcome, "yes, yes you can stay. You can stay."   
He rest a palm at the back of John's head, holding him tight, elation bubbling up in his chest at John's words. If was the first time he'd heard that sort of optimism from John. "Yes. Long as you like, forever, that's..yes, of course, of course.”

John didn't know when this had happened, but for the first time since he was taken, he actually wanted to live. Not for someone else, not for fear that his suicide attempt would get him punished, but he actually, honestly wanted to live. The realization his him hard and he thought back to all his desperate attempt at death. 

"Oh, God..." Tears sprang to his eyes and he adhered himself to Greg. "I want to live. I want to _live_!" It had taken months for John to get to a place where he even thought about living, and the shift hit him hard. 

For the first time in nearly two years, he could see the sun.

Greg held on to him tightly as the emotional tidal wave crashed over John, breaking down barriers that had kept him in so much pain. When he started to cry Greg slid his fingers through his hair, rocking him slightly, keeping John in close. He was in tears himself, though quiet and _relieved_ , breathing properly for the first time in so long he'd forgotten what it could feel like. Greg was positively floating. 

John wept with the sheer force of his mental shift, the break that told him perhaps this wouldn't end with him taking his own life. He cried for all the days after his capture where he fought to walk only so he could pitch himself into the Thames, or when he struggled to speak properly so they would let him free, or when he forced himself to be calm in order to be unrestrained in hopes he could grab something to end his life with. Now, with Greg beside him and the telly on, he didn't feel the need to search for an escape. Why would he ever leave this? 

John cried until he had nothing left, and felt far lighter for it once he stopped. It was an emotional flood, but he had came out on top. 

Greg very quietly picked up the cloth napkin he'd brought with him and gently ran it over John's face, holding John as his strength gave out. 

"There's a good man, you're alright," he whispered gently, cleaning John's face as well as he could, "just breathe, I've got you. You're alright." He leaned in and pressed a slow, steady kiss to John's forehead, elated with the abrupt shift in events, with the seemingly impossible breakthrough. 

"I love you. God, I love you. It's all alright." 

John leaned fully on Greg. His strength was gone, he was exhausted, drained, ready to sleep, and lighter than he had been in years. Generally, drowsiness is described as a heavy feeling, but John was light as a feather as he felt himself pulled up, not down, into sleep. He shuddered lightly from the force of it and held onto Greg with a weak grip. 

"I'm going to live," he whispered, and his eyes closed.

Glad that he'd made them a place on the sofa, Greg leaned into the tangle of pillows and rest with John on his chest, John's head over his heart.

God, it was brilliant. John had made progress that Greg had begun to wonder would ever happen. He closed his eyes, nearly instantly asleep.  
John floated off to sleep after just a few moments in the bliss relief of weightlessness that came in a euphoric manner when one is suddenly relieved from pain. 

Greg slept more soundly than he had in recent memory, relieved and dreamless, properly letting his mind rest. He kept his arms wrapped around John even in his sleep, and did not move at all otherwise. 

\----------------------------------------------------------------

 

Sherlock's third night under deep sedation found him in a bit of distress. Miller was up with the cardiology team, watching as Sherlock's exhausted heart wrestled to beat properly. They were adjusting his medications constantly to keep him in a normal rhythm. 

Miller watched the nurses as they ran an extensive EKG on him, leads connected by 12 points, capturing images of the struggling organ. He and the team talked for nearly an hour before the next decision was made. 

"Well, let's see what his brother wants done." 

He was not going to have this conversation via text. Miller picked up the phone there at Sherlock's bedside and directly dialed Mycroft. 

Mycroft woke up at exactly the correct time and kept to a very precise schedule. He had found himself slacking off the day before, avoiding his work and taking longer showers, and now everything was monitored. His calories, time in the lav, time getting dressed and eating, time sleeping and resting, and time for work were all restricted. 

He was, for all purposes, on autopilot. 

When the phone call came through, his heart leapt into his throat and he accepted. "Hello?"

Miller shifted Sherlock's hand on the bed, trying to put the unconscious man in a more comfortable position. 

"Sherlock is having a bit of a struggle tonight," he said calmly, watching the chaotic peaks and valleys play themselves out over his monitor. 

"I need to talk to you about his heart. Would you rather discuss this over the phone, or would you prefer to come here and do so in person?"

Mycroft ran his hands back through his hair and closed his eyes for a moment. 

"I'll come in. Is it serious?" 

His heart squeezed and his stomach churned painfully each time he thought about what condition his baby brother was in. 

"Trying to keep it from becoming so, but at the moment it's not anything I'd call 'good.' We do have some options though, and his cardiologist is sitting right next to me now at Sherlock's bedside, so he has a team ready if necessary." 

Miller looked back up to the monitor and then to Sherlock, checking his profusion for the twentieth time in an hour. 

"Alright, I'm on my way."

Mycroft got a car and drove swiftly to the hospital. His nerves were on end and sensitive with a sense of impending heartbreak he couldn't shake. 

Miller and the cardiology team just waited for Mycroft, keeping a sharp eye on Sherlock. Not much changed in the time he took to get to the hospital. 

Mycroft took long strides and his umbrella clicked against the floor like a cane as he walked.

When he reached Sherlock's room, he stepped in hesitantly.

Miller looked up from beside Sherlock's bed, nodding to Mycroft and leaving Sherlock's side. 

"Mycroft," he said quietly, waving out the rest of the staff so that they could speak in private. Sherlock was just as he'd been left, intubated and deathly still, his heart beating slow and irregular, "would you like to have a seat?"

Mycroft tore his eyes away from Sherlock and sat down by his side. He had worked for years to get to his position of prestige, and had grown accustomed to being either on par or above those around him mentally, which he still was, emotionally, and by rank. Currently, his rank meant little, and he was far from emotionally together. He despised it, but would need to work that out later. 

"How is he?"

Miller sat as well, facing Mycroft, speaking frank and calm. 

"Exhausted. In every sense. We are doing everything we can to support him but his body is struggling to carry on. He has not experienced another cardiac episode only due to diligence of our team, and those efforts are becoming less effective. We have two options at this juncture, Mycroft." 

He looked up towards Sherlock's bed before returning his focus to the elder brother again. 

"We can continue to support him and allow his body to fight," _we can let him die_ , "or we can attempt a temporary pacemaker and a stent to see if we can't get his heart a bit more stable. Cardiology is optimistic that if he can survive the surgery, his long term prognosis will improve." 

Mycroft took a moment to collect himself.The options were now a pacemaker, or let Sherlock die. 

"Pacemaker," Mycroft said as soon as the other had finished speaking. 

"No question in it. Do whatever you can to keep him alive." 

Mycroft reached out and took Sherlock's hand in a quiet gesture of his attachment. It was frightening to think that Sherlock could die while he was holding him, as if a desperate, tight grip on his wrist wouldn't somehow anchor him to his body and keep his spirit from fleeing.

Miller nodded, deeply relieved with Mycroft's choice. 

"Alright, we can have him in this evening. Ortho is going to take the halos off his legs as well, going to just use rods now that the worst of it is healed. When we pull him out of this in a few days, he'll be much more comfortable physically, as far as his limbs are concerned. I'm afraid he's quite accustomed to pain in his chest, so the incision will hopefully not be too much of an issue." 

He looked to Mycroft and back to Sherlock. 

"This is likely the result of the combined illness before his captivity, the severe trauma, and the intense pneumonia and infection he endured for months. His heart, Mycroft, it will never fully recover. This will be something he lives with forever, but it will be manageable. I'm going to leave the pair of you alone for a few minutes, alright? I know he's down, but patients like this have a way of responding better when people who love them are around. It will help him to have you here for a few minutes, if you can spare them." 

Mycroft watched Sherlock as Miller spoke. Generally, he watched people's faces very closely when they spoke, though he never stared, in order to pick up on their exact meanings behind the words. 

Words are so ambiguous. Terms are better, but people hardly used them. Two people could speak the same phrase and mean two entirely different things. 

But right now, Mycroft didn't care about studying Miller's face to analyze his words. He watched Sherlock instead as Miller's words sparked trails of thought in his mind. 

"I'll stay with him for a bit."

Miller left the brothers alone for a while, setting about making arrangements for the surgery. They would do it later that night with a full team. 

The entire time the doctor was absent, Mycroft laid still with his head on Sherlock's bed. 

"You know, when you were just a baby, mummy told me that it was my responsibility to watch out for you. I'd never been given a responsibility before from them. I thought it meant they finally trusted me." 

He shook his head at the ridiculous memory and ran his fingers back through Sherlock's hair. 

"I was young and foolish. I thought that they had in ally accepted my capabilities, and I swore I'd look out for you. They'd be upset if they found out what I've done."

An hour later Miller returned, lightly knocking on the door before moving over and sitting down at Mycroft's side. 

"Eight tonight. Likely will be a two to three hour procedure start to finish if there are no complications. He'll come back to this room to recover. The incision will be about thirteen centimeters long, right along here," he traced a line vertically between the center of his chest and shoulder. 

"We will have dermatology there to help with the incision as it will have to go through the burn scars. We will do our best to ensure it does not constrict his movement later on. You will be able to see the outline of the pacemaker under the skin. Some people find this a bit alarming at first. We will pull him out of sedation temporarily after the surgery, likely only for a few minutes, and it is unlikely he will have memory of that later if you cannot be here." 

Mycroft couldn't imagine what would happen if Moran put something under Sherlock's skin, and it was a fair guess that in his stupor, his little brother would think it was the madman and not a team of doctors had put the device inside him. 

"He won't like that," Mycroft began, "especially if he thinks it was Moran."

Miller had honestly not considered the possibility. He hummed and leaned back, tracing his lip with his finger. 

"That is a factor I'd not considered. There is a way to put it under the ribs, but the surgery is much more invasive and is not medically necessary due to the hopes that the pacemaker will be removed within the month. However, that could be overly optimistic, he may simply require it for life, in which case we will have to place the permanent one deeper." 

He stared at Sherlock, watching his color fade as his heart skipped a few beats, pinking up slightly a few moments later. 

"What are your thoughts?"

Mycroft looked over at Sherlock and let his eyes linger. 

"I'm not sure if it will frighten him. I was only trying to think like him. If he wakes up thinking he is with Moran, and there's something under his skin, he might panic. Maybe if we can keep it hidden, it will be alright."

Miller thought on it before answering. "We can keep a dressing over it. We cannot keep his entire chest covered, though. Will you be able to be here when we wake him? If not, we may just put a surgical sheet up at his chest so he cannot see his body. Paul will likely have suggestions for managing him in your absence." 

Mycroft nodded. "I'll be here when he wakes no matter what. But I can't guarantee I'll be here every time he wakes up. I'll do everything in my power to. Perhaps I can move in for a week or so after he's woken. That might help and we can get him used to the idea of a pacemaker."

Miller shook his head, "Unless he has a remarkable improvement upon waking, we will sedate him again shortly after, just as he is now. It is a safety measure only that we will wake him, and he will likely only be up for ten or so minutes. We'd ideally like to give him another seven days of rest before we subject him to stress again. He will be in pain today, what with the new incision and the removal of the halos and placement of the rods. So, by six am or so you should be well clear to leave, unless there is some reason we need to keep him awake.” 

Miller paused before adding, “It will be much better for him with you here. He does not fare well without you." 

Mycroft knew full well that if the doctor suggested he stay, he would do it, job be damned. 

"I'll stay, then, for as long as he needs me. If you believe it would be beneficial, I can stay during his time under. I do plan on staying at least a week when he wakes up after his next seven days of rest."

Miller was deeply relieved to hear that, honestly not sure how else they could possibly hope to manage Sherlock otherwise. He'd been putting himself in _arrest_ with fear without his sibling at his side. 

"That is good news indeed. The focus for him now is keeping him as calm as is possible until we get his heart under better control. Panic is the enemy, and thus far you and John are the only solution for that. As it seems...doubtful...that we will hear from John, it is good to know your plans. I do hope to give you another week to catch up on your affairs, I know your pressures are many. We will begin at eight tonight, if you will return by seven, that will ensure you are able to see him before the surgery if you wish."

Mycroft was back at Sherlock's side with one hip on the bed. It seemed a natural place for him to be and he didn't question it. 

"I'll be back at that time, then. I'll be here as long as I need to. I'll bring my things to work while he is asleep so I don't fall too far behind."

The day passed with several more episodes from Sherlock's heart, confirming the need for further intervention in regards to his heart. Miller and Dr. Acars, Sherlock's primary cardiologist, came to discuss everything with Mycroft around seven thirty as the nursing staff came to prep Sherlock for surgery. 

"Do you have any further questions, Mr. Holmes?"

Mycroft shook his head. Everything was clear, and he understood the risks and the consequences of the procedure. 

"No, thank you. You've been very helpful. I'll wait here and do a bit of work while I wait."

The surgery ended up taking several hours longer than anticipated. Dr. Acars walked out with Miller, going to Sherlock's empty ICU room in search of his brother. Acars was still in his cap, blue covers still over his shoes. It was close to four in the morning. For once, he addressed Mycroft before Miller did. 

"Mr. Holmes," he said without preamble, calling Mycroft's attention. 

Mycroft was on his laptop, trying to work efficiently while his mind insisted on worrying. As the night dragged on, he grew more and more restless and unable to focus. 

When Acars walked in, Mycroft rose to his feet. 

"How did it go?"

Miller cleared his throat and looked away for a moment, leaving Acars to answer. 

"He is presently stable. The pacemaker is in place and operating properly. We had a chance to observe it taking over for an improper rhythm twice after placement. Mr. Holmes, your brother's heart is extensively damaged. I find it highly unlikely the pacemaker will not be a permanent situation, should he survive this." 

Miller spoke up then, knowing that Mycroft was a very sturdy man, though oddly a bit protective of him and not appreciating how frankly Acars was going at it. 

"The infections pared with advanced dehydration and malnutrition have left lasting, but _survivable_ damage. It is not much worse than we had suspected before going in. There were complications, though he is faring better than before he went in, I would say." 

Mycroft felt like he was being physically attacked by Miller and Acras's words, as each one struck him like a heavy blow. 

"Should he survive," Mycroft began with a pointed look at Acras, "he will never need to do any physical activity. He'll have people with him to keep him calm and should have a stress free life." 

He walked back and sat down in his place by Sherlock's bed. Generally, Mycroft remained standing until the conversation was over, but wanted to make it clear he wasn't leaving.

Miller carried on before Acars, who was at the top of his field in cardiology and apparently the bottom in bedside manner, "He will be returned to this room within the hour, at which time we will stop his sedation and attempt to rouse him. He'll be extubated and made to breathe on his own for a little while before we put him back under." 

Acars nodded to Mycroft and excused himself from the room, going back to see to Sherlock. Miller lingered a few minutes longer. 

"He can survive this, Mycroft. Acars is an excellent surgeon, the best, he is not particularly an optimist, nor does he know Sherlock in any way. Sherlock makes sport of odds." 

Mycroft looked at Sherlock's bed where his brother should be. 

"Yes, Sherlock is a fighter. He's stubborn. I'm sure he'll make it through." 

He swallowed hard. This waiting, the uncertainty, was like walking along a tightrope that could snap at any time. Mycroft wanted Sherlock to live. By no means or twist of words did he want him to die, but this waiting was unbearable. 

"Do you believe that he'll ever live a normal life?"

Miller sat down beside Mycroft and was quiet for a moment. 

"I don't care for that term, 'normal life.' He will find a new normal, there will be normalcy for him in his life. No, neither he nor John, or any other victim of torture will ever be able to return to life as it had been before hand. They can find peace, and they can be happy, but it will always be with them. John needs more surgeries to get his full range of motion back, and he, like Sherlock, will forever carry the physical reminders of what happened. Sherlock will never run marathons. His physical abilities are permanently changed, but this does not mean he cannot have a fulfilling life in the future. He will find a new normal. What is happening now, just as for John, is worth it in the long run." 

"I'd rather Sherlock didn't return to his old normal. He was always getting himself in trouble, on and off drugs, that sort of thing." 

Mycroft was growing uncomfortable with the entire situation. He hated having Sherlock in a hospital and not at home where he belonged.


	22. Chapter 22

"I just want him to be comfortable. I don't expect him to live to be one hundred or go dashing around on cases with John again. I want him to have a happy, or at least tolerable life."

Miller nodded and stood up as he heard the bed coming down the hall. "I don't see why that wouldn't be possible," he said honestly, motioning for Mycroft to step out in the hall with him so that they could bring Sherlock and all his blipping, chirping equipment back into the room. While the team was getting him transferred, Miller spoke to Mycroft. 

"He will be physically cold to the touch, and with very poor color. We cool them down and slow the heart. That will resolve within the hour, but he will look nearly blue, I do not want you to be alarmed." 

They were not invited back into the room for another ten minutes. Sherlock was removed from the ventilator with just the tube in his throat, as he had been the last time they attempted to let him breathe on his own. The sedatives were all discontinued, leaving him with just pain medicine on board, Miller standing at his head and Acars just beside, watching his heart, waiting for Sherlock to wake. 

Mycroft understood the process and nodded. "Yes, I'm aware. Thank you for keeping me updated." Mycroft had little to say at this point and watched Sherlock through the window. His baby brother looked far too small. 

When he was invited back in, Mycroft was beside the bed in the blink of an eye and put one arm around the very top of Sherlock' chest, at his collar bone, to avoid touching the incision. 

Sherlock took over breathing for himself nearly straight away, making Miller smile broadly. "That's a very encouraging sign," he said as he counted Sherlock's surprisingly steady respirations. 

Several minutes ticked by without anything of remark, his heart steady thanks to the pacemaker, his breathing even. 

It wasn't until the sedation began to fade that things began to change. Sherlock's brows slowly drew in on themselves, his breathing kicking up faster. Miller watched the reaction, wondering if it was pain or fear, though likely a combination of both. Sherlock's fingers slowly began to curl in the cuffs, his newly freed legs shifting against the restraints as he clearly began to fight for consciousness. 

Mycroft unclasped Sherlock's arm that was closest to him and laid down on the bed beside him. "Hey, 'Lock," he began and spoke clearly in his calmest voice. "It's My. My is here. I'm here to keep you safe. Could you open your eyes and look at me?" 

Mycroft carded his fingers through Sherlock's hair and tried to be both physically and verbally present to him.

Sherlock's chest dipped as he drew in a sharp breath, biting down hard on the tube and shaking his head before trying to twist away from it. He grabbed at Mycroft, eyes moving rapidly under his lids until, with incredible effort, he was slowly able to slightly raise them, damp lashes fluttering, pupils too blown to be focused at all. 

That was all Miller needed, recognizing that Sherlock was both awake and deeply frightened of something foreign in his mouth. He untied the sides of the straps holding the breathing tube in place, deflating the little balloon that was settled inside Sherlock's throat to keep the tube in place, and suddenly pulled it, leaving Sherlock coughing though obviously relieved. 

Mycroft was sickened by Sherlock's immediate fear response and noted that his abuse would leave lasting fears. Mycroft was by Sherlock's face making his best attempt to be comforting. 

"Hey, 'Lock, I'm here. I'm right here. Listen to my voice and try to tell me where you are. I'm Mycroft, your big brother."

Sherlock held tight to Mycroft as the coughing subsided and he further pulled out of sedation. He was able to nod after a moment, catching his breath back, throat raw and tender. He spoke softly, voice rasping and weak. 

"In hospital. W-With My." He kept a steady grip, closing his eyes in exhaustion. 

Miller was beyond relieved to hear Sherlock speaking in what sounded to be lucidity. He held an oxygen mask near, but not over, Sherlock's mouth to give him a bit of assistance breathing with a little blow-by support.   
Mycroft's eyes closed and he mouthed a silent 'thank you' to any deity that might exist. 

"Yes! Yes, you're in a hospital with My. It's good that you remember that. I'm here for you." 

He kissed Sherlock's forehead and brushed his hair back. 

"It's alright. I'm here. How are you feeling?"

Sherlock's reply was sluggish, but lucid. "Cold," he breathed, not feeling much else outside of that. 

Miller spoke quietly then, "He has warm fluids running in, I'll have a nurse fetch a heated blanket for comfort," he offered, nodding to a man at the corner of the room to rush and go do just that. 

Sherlock kept a tight hold of Mycroft, constantly tugging at or shifting near in an effort to ensure he was not hallucinating. 

"Stay?"

Yes, Sherlock's skin was very cold, and Mycroft pulled the blankets over the both of them so he could help warm Sherlock himself. 

"I'm going to stay. I'm not leaving you." Mycroft held Sherlock gently but with a grip that wouldn't be easily broken. “I've got you."

The nurse returned rapidly with the heated blanket, putting it over both the men before stepping back. Sherlock shivered hard under the renewed warmth, grimacing. 

"Chest h-hurts," he breathed, shifting and grimacing again, "f-feels...f-f-feels l-like..." he began to reach for the pained area as his heart rate began to elevate. He felt cut open. 

Mycroft took Sherlock's hand before he could reach his chest. 

"You have a pacemaker, 'Lock. Remember how your chest was hurting before? We thought it was a good idea to give you one to stop the pain. It's going to help you stay safe."

Sherlock waited for the flood of information on n. pacemaker: to come, blinking in surprise when there was no data at all. He mentally stepped back, intent on sliding into his mind palace to gather what he knew. When he brushed up against the damp, splintered door his eye snapped open, remembering that his mind was in ruins. 

"Pace-" he closed his eyes. Old men had pacemakers. He was not yet an old man, though he very much felt of one, "am I d-dying, then?"

Mycroft shook his head adamantly. "You aren't dying. It's just going to keep your heart beating regularly. Nothing to worry about." He attempted a small smile, but it looked forced. 

"You're alright," he whispered and reached over to unclasp Sherlock's other arm. "I'm here.You're safe." 

Sherlock grabbed hold of Mycroft with both hands, hardly realizing he had freedom with not just the one, staring wide-eyed at him, suddenly sharply focused. 

"I don't want to die," he breathed, terror clear on his face, "I don't l-like the d-dark. I don't want to die. I don't lik-ke the dark," he repeated, his voice breaking. 

Sherlock had spent the last several days in the company of Moran. Even in the deep recesses of his mind, the man lurked, and Sherlock now equated that sort of complete darkness with Moran's company as well. 

"Please, I d-don't like the dark. If I die, it...it w-will be dark." 

It was a relief to hear that Sherlock did not want to die, and Mycroft happily agreed. 

"Yes, Sherlock, you'll stay alive. You won't die. I'm going to keep you out of the dark and you'll be safe." 

If Sherlock was still seeing Moran when he was asleep, then it would mean there was very little place for him to be safe. 

"It's alright, 'Lock."

Sherlock closed his eyes and eased his hold, relaxing back down against Mycroft not that he was sure his brother understood him. He lay there, shivering and lucid, holding tight to Mycroft's waist coat.

Mycroft held Sherlock's head close to his chest and kissed his hairline. "It's alright, 'Lock. You're safe. You're safe. I'm not leaving."

Sherlock lay quietly with Mycroft for a few minutes before suddenly sucking in a sharp, startled breath. Miller spoke softly, trying to assure him. 

"Just the pacemaker, you will get used to that feeling soon enough," he whispered, having seen the little device kick in on the monitor right as Sherlock pulled in a breath. 

Sherlock pulled at Mycroft, unnerved by the sensation. It was not particularly pain, though it was unwelcome. He turned his face to Mycroft's chest, breathing slow and deep. 

"Is it okay?" He asked his sibling, needing Mycroft to settle him. 

Mycroft was pleased that Sherlock was coming to him for answers rather than just panicking under his own assumptions. 

"Yes, Sherlock, it's okay. It's good for you. It will keep your heart from skipping and hurting, which will help you recover faster."

Sherlock nodded against Mycroft's chest, not at all happy with the knowledge that there was something under his skin, forcing his heart to beat when it did not want to. Mycroft was calm though, and so surely he was alright. Surely. 

He shifted again, keeping his cheek against Mycroft's chest, slowly realizing he had command of both his hands. He stretched out the severely broken arm, looking at it in the dim light, watching as the screws reflected back at him. It was nearly down to its normal size, the swelling vastly reduced, though the skin was...well it was ruined. There was no getting around that. 

"I l-look like John."   
Mycroft wasn't exactly sure how he was going to respond to that, and took a moment to prepare a gentle path. 

"Yes, you have lots of scars. They won't always look so badly, though, I promise." 

Sherlock shook his head as a slow, faint smile curled his lips, just enough to register as intentional. With his better hand he traced over the twisted flesh, wincing at the pain of it. 

"No...it's good. It's good. If I look like him...he...m-maybe he won't a-always hate me. Maybe it...if I'm like him..." Sherlock shivered hard as he carried on warming, slowly setting his arms back down, not at all liking the screws but overall calm. 

It wasn't exactly how Mycroft wanted Sherlock to be thinking, but now wasn't the time to address such things, and if it was comforting him, than that was enough for Mycroft. 

"He won't hate you. He doesn't hate you now. Moriarty failed to make John Watson hate you because the man is strong, loyal, and cares a great deal for you.”

Sherlock looked to his brother then, desperately trying to analyze him as he used to do. He stared at Mycroft's face, trying to find the truth behind the words. 

The smile slowly faded from his lips and he rest down against Mycroft's chest again, hiding his arms back under the warm blankets. 

"He did not go h-home. It...h-how did he say? ' _C-cold and dark_ ,' I b-believe. P-perhaps he does not hate me, but he does n-not care any longer. Th-that's okay though b-because...because...h-he'll s-see my...my sk-skin and he'll know I...I m-mean...I w-walked into this t-to keep him s-safe. He w-won't always...always th-think of me as cold and d-dark...he...I l-look like him...m-maybe he'll..." 

Sherlock trailed off, his throat tight and eyes slowly beginning to burn with talk of John, suddenly and intensely missing him. 

"No, 'Lock, no, he doesn't think you're cold and dark. I think he wishes things were back the way they were, when the two of you would run off on cases together. It would be empty without you in the flat. He doesn't dislike you. I'm willing to guess when you go back to Baker Street, so will he." 

Mycroft continued to stroke Sherlock's hair and shift his hold occasionally so his brother remembered that he had him. 

"If you want, we can write him a letter. I'm sure he'd write back."

Sherlock closed his eyes, absently tracing Mycroft's buttons as he had done when he was very young. It was very intimidating to think of trying to communicate with John again. 

"I m-made him cry," he whispered, sounding very small and unsure. "Wh-what if I m-make him cry again? He w-won't talk to me if...if I'm a-always messing up." 

Mycroft shook his head. "No, no, I'll read it first and make sure there isn't anything that would make him upset. I think it hurts him the most to see you hurting. Come on, why don't you try? Then, he can send you one back and I'll read it to you."  
Miller and Acars were keeping a very close watch on Sherlock. Already he'd been awake far longer than they'd intended, though it seemed, for now at least, as though he may be able to remain as such. 

Sherlock picked at one of Mycroft's buttons as he thought on it. "I...I'm afraid th-that e-even hearing f-from me...f-from me at all will ups-set him. He always _endured_ m-me. I make him feel sad. He a-always leaves m-my company sad or t-terrified. W-won't it be cruel to be in his letter box as well?"

Mycroft hushed Sherlock and absently ran his fingers through his hair. 

"Oh, not at all! I'm confident it will be good for him to hear from you. Remember, Moriarty never made him nervous about hearing from you, just the voice. He's gotten over that, though. Moriarty lost. You've won. And now, I think it would be good if you wrote to him. I'll write, if you tell me what to say."

And what was there to say? 

_John, I can't think of life outside of you. I'm frightened I'm dying. I wish you were with me, it's terrifying here. Sherlock_

Or perhaps, 

_John, sometimes I think of the way you look when Greg holds you, and I know you'd be happier if I just left. I’d do so if they’d let me. I’d pull the sun down for you if they’d let me. Sherlock_

"I...I don't...I just m-miss him. Would he want to know that? He wouldn't want to know that. M-Maybe j-just..."   
he could not help the tear that slid down his cheek, "d-don't say an-anyth-thing about m-me...just a-ask how h-he is." 

Mycroft saw the pain on Sherlock's face and his own heart clenched. "Oh, Sherlock, it's going to be alright. I promise, you'll have your soldier back soon." 

He spoke to Miller then. "Could you bring me some paper and a pen? I don't want to leave him."

Not daring to step away from Sherlock's head, keeping near with a mask and ever prepared for Sherlock to abruptly stop on them as he'd been doing, Miller looked up to one of the nurses and nodded while keeping a sharp eye on Sherlock's condition. Sherlock seemed wrapped up only sadness, not panic. His heart rate was steady and even, the pacemaker doing its job. 

The nurse handed over the paper and a pen on a small rolling tray, bringing it closer for Mycroft's benefit. Sherlock was too fresh from surgery to be allowed to sit up, so no one moved to raise the bed at all. 

"D-don't say...m-maybe...maybe...don't s-say it's f-from me. Just..." he whimpered in trapped sadness, desperately wanting word from John and desperately afraid to remind John he was still there. 

"We sh-shouldn't write," he whispered, deeply saddened, "h-he would have...on his own...he's...wh-what if he's calm and I...I s-send him...I r-ruin it?"

Mycroft adjusted the table and moved one hand in order to write. 

"He won't be afraid of the letter. Don't worry, Greg wouldn't ever let anything happen to John if it was going to hurt or scare him. Let's start. 'Dear John...' Would you like me to ask how he is? I'll tell him that you miss him, if you want."

Sherlock closed his eyes, curling his fingers up to his lips as slow, heavy tears began to track down his cheeks. 

"I d-don't know," he breathed, paralyzed at the idea of contacting John. 

Every time he'd tried to properly interact with the man, he'd ruined everything. God yes, he missed him terribly. It was near indescribable how deep the ache of loss was there. Yes, he very much wanted to know how John was faring. 

"D-don't tell him a-about me. Just ask...ask af-after him. How...how he f-feels and if h-he's comfortable and...a-and th-thank Greg-" and oh, did this _burn_ , "thank G-Greg for c-caring for him and...and...t-tell him I'll n-never...no don't s-say anything about m-me just...I h-hope very much that he's comfortable a-and h-healing...h-happy...I..." he covered his face with his hands, tipping his forehead to Mycroft's hip as overwhelming sadness crushed down on him relentlessly. 

"P-promise m-me this w-won't make it w-worse."

"It won't make it worse," Mycroft assured and wrote on the page in neat script. "It reads;

"' _Dear John,_

_"I hope very much that you are comfortable and healing. Are you doing well?_ '"

Mycroft stopped for a moment and looked down at Sherlock. "We should tell him that you are getting better too, just so he doesn't worry. It would help him, I'm convinced."

Sherlock shook his head. 

"T-to John, that will n-not be welcome news," he breathed, recalling how John had looked at him time and time again. 

"Don't t-tell...don't tell him th-that. He'll think...you'll scare him if he..." Sherlock swallowed hard and grabbed at the blankets, trying to drag them up so that he could hide in them, as though the warm material would shelter him from the terrible ache of John's loss. 

Mycroft nodded and put it in anyway. Though he wouldn't read it aloud, the letter now read; 

_Dear John,_

_I hope very much that you are comfortable and healing. Are you doing well? I am improving and have less pain each day._

_To Greg; thank you for looking after John._

_Sherlock_

Mycroft turned to Sherlock and took his hand. "Anything else you want to say?"

Sherlock simply shook his head, eyes closed tight against the reality of what they were doing. What would John do when he discovered Sherlock had written to him? A clear mental image of John shifting from warmly embracing him, thanking Sherlock for calling him a mountain, to abruptly shutting him out with disgust tore through his mind and he bit down on a knuckle, frightened of what was happening. 

"I'm...I d-don't think we sh-should do this," he whispered, nearly out of his skin now, his chest tight and aching. "he...he w-won't like...Greg will be...th-this...this is bad we sh-shouldn't.." 

Mycroft folded the paper neatly. "John will be so pleased to hear from you. He likes to know that you are safe. Remember how he protected you? He's always been like that, even when you two first met. He killed a man to save you just the day after meeting you! Honestly, Sherlock, he's going to be glad you wrote him."

Sherlock was silent in the wake of his brother's words. Slowly he began to entertain the idea that he'd upset Mycroft...perhaps that was why he was being made to do this. Mycroft never struck him, never, not even as a boy, but that did not mean that Mycroft did not know how to wickedly punish. Sherlock did not believe for a minute that John would be anything other than horrified to see something from him in the post. 

He kept his fingers to his lips, quietly biting his fingertips in distress, tears sliding down his face as he accepted that he could not stop this. 

Mycroft hated seeing Sherlock in distress, but examined his thoughts again and found over and over that while it might cause him pain now, being able to communicate with John was for the best. 

"I'll have it hand delivered by someone I trust," Mycroft said softly and kissed Sherlock's forehead. 

Sherlock flinched as he was kissed, his breathing picking up slighty. 

"He's g-going to be so ups-set," he whispered, his voice breaking on the last word as a child's would when begging for their secret to be kept from a parent. He shivered and pulled the blankets up higher, openly crying then, confused at what he'd done to upset his brother so deeply. Mycroft had been safe, and now he was being made to either scare or disgust John, and he could not sort why or how to avoid doing so in future. Sherlock knew that when he couldn't puzzle out why he was being hurt, it was best to cling to silence. He lay there quietly, fear settling over him like a well loved sweater, wet and clinging, heavy in all the worst ways. 

Mycroft pulled away slightly and his eyes clouded with worry. 

"Sherlock, I won't hurt you. I love you. I'm not going to hurt you. I swear, this won't hurt him. If you want, I can have Greg call me before and tell me if John wants to read it or not. It won't be forced. If John doesn't want to read it, he doesn't have to. He can put it down and walk away. I promise you, you aren't hurting him."

Mycroft sounded so painfully sincere that Sherlock could hardly stomach the idea of not believing him. He opened his eyes, searching his brother's face. 

"H-have you t-talked to him or...is he...is h-he okay? He _always_ f-falls apart when...wh-when it's me. When I'm..." _breathing_ "n-near him or he's..." Sherlock shivered hard and whimpered at the pain that caused, confused and slowly becoming more and more frightened with a situation he could not understand. 

"John d-doesn't like m-me...he...he...why would you th-think he won't be...fr-frightened? He...he doesn't w-want to know I'm h-healing, he'd only w-want to know if I died." 

Mycroft saw that they were hitting a wall and decided to chip against it. 

"Here is my evidence. He gave you first aid when you were bleeding on the floor of the hospital during the attack when he could have left you to die. When he saw you on the little telly we brought in, he was frantic that you were going to hurt yourself when you left to your bathroom. He tried to come after you to help. Again, whenever you asked, he came to help you. He cares a great deal about you. You were tortured to believe you were hurting him. That is why you are afraid."

Sherlock’s mind flooded with analysis as his brother spoke, ripping apart each of Mycroft’s points. 

_He gave you first aid when you were bleeding on the floor of the hospital - John is by nature a good man, and rendered aid to the enemy in battle many times over. Null point._

_He was frantic that you were going to hurt yourself when you left to your bathroom. He tried to come after you to help - John...John would have...what would he have done had that been a stranger on the telly? Likely attempted help. Perhaps not to the extreme of... Possible Supporting Data._

_Whenever you asked, he came to help you. - Mycroft himself asked that you give John a purpose by allowing him to fulfill his misplaced sense of needing to earn his place by helping. He never wanted to help_ you _, just wanted to be useful. Wanted to assuage his misplaced sense of guilt. Null Point_

_You were tortured to believe you were hurting him._

"B-but I do h-hurt him. E-everything I do...s-say...he...he l-l-leaves sc-screaming or-" his voice broke as he recalled the last time he'd laid eyes on John, how panicked and in tears he was despite Sherlock's overwhelming desperation to say a proper goodbye. 

"I only h-hurt him...that's wh-what I do. I hurt John Watson. Th-that's what I do." 

Mycroft shook his head and continued to brush Sherlock's hair back. 

"You don't hurt him as much as you think. You make him a bit uncomfortable, but nothing he can't handle. He was happy to be with you last time, remember? He only cries when he believes he is hurting you. He feels like he is failing. It makes him sad." 

That seemed to be the only way to explain it that didn't put the blame on Sherlock. 

"Listen, you never willingly hurt him, and he knows it."

Sherlock shook his head slowly, exhausted and afraid. 

"He d-doesn't. He doesn't know th-that. He...b-betrayed. Betrayal requires intent. He...h-how am I to l-live with this guilt, My? I c-cannot _bear it_. S-So much...so much r-regret and...my mind is beyond my reach...how do I... I cannot..." he grit his teeth and closed his eyes, tears dripping down and pooling in his ears, "I h-have no hope of f-f-fixing it." 

Mycroft prayed that they would sedate Sherlock soon. "It will get easier, I promise. It will be much better once you are out of the hospital. For right now, I want you to remember that you can trust me, that I love you, and that I am the one who keeps you safe. I promise you it will get better. Could you try to trust me?"

To Sherlock, the request was nearly too much. He wasn't sure he trusted Mycroft in his dealings with John. 

"Wh-what if the letter..w-what if it m-makes him angry? He'll th-think I tried...tried to c-come after him and...h-he n-needs me to leave him alone and-" his heart rate was slowly ticking up, and Miller waved his hand slightly to get Mycroft's attention, motioning to the syringe in his hand in question. 

Mycroft gave the barest of nods to Miller in response and comforted Sherlock. "He won't be angry. He'll know that you are worried about him, and it will make him feel much better because he'll know you still care about him."

Sherlock was about to respond when he felt the cold slide of sedation in his veins. His eyes went wide and his hand shot out, grabbing hold of Mycroft, sheer terror painted across his expression. 

"Y-You said! YOU SAID!" he cried out in heartbroken fear as his limbs went heavy, heart suddenly racing, struggling to keep hold of Mycroft's coat. Darkness edged in on his vision, setting him openly crying, slurring his words in child-like French. 

"The dark...you s-said....I thought..." with a soft whimper of fear, betrayal tightening across his chest, his head lulled to the side and his hand went lax. 

Miller was immediately on him, dragging Sherlock by the shoulders to the center of the bed, instructing his team to move as he opened Sherlock's mouth with his fingers, sliding the tongue blade deep into his throat while team members moved his arm back into position, leaving only the side Mycroft occupied alone for the moment, strapping him back down

Mycroft kept his eyes on Sherlock's even when his brother looked at him with betrayal so sharp it sliced clean through Mycroft's heart. "I know, I know I said, but it'll be alright. It won't be for long. You just need to sleep." 

As Sherlock was cared for, Mycroft held tightly to his hand and closed his eyes. His heart was racing and he felt himself close to tears, which simply wouldn't do in a hospital full of people. 

It took another half hour to get Sherlock back down as they'd had him, deep and not responsible for his own breathing. The team, including Acars, all cleared out, leaving Mycroft and Miller. Sherlock was intubated, with the nasogastric tube down his nose just as John had, keeping him fed. There was now only the gentle hiss and whoosh of the ventilator, along with the steady blip of Sherlock's cardiac monitor. Sherlock looked as he had for the last few days, only now he'd saline tracks drying on his face, and his legs were free of the halos. 

Miller spoke softly to Mycroft. "That was far more than I was expecting from him today. Very, very good news." 

Mycroft didn't see it as good news. Sherlock had flinched when he kissed his head, thought he was hurting John, and was still deeply anguished by his own mind. 

"Yes, good news." Mycroft's voice was an empty echo and he kept his eyes on Sherlock. 

Miller nodded, stepping back from Sherlock and Mycroft.   
"He was lucid the entire time. He was very responsive to you. All improvements on his mental well being. Perhaps when he wakes there will be word from Dr. Watson, and that will help. He was lucid. The pacemaker is doing its job. He knew who you were and is eager to listen to you."

Mycroft nodded and slowly pulled himself away from Sherlock. He stood next to the bed, one hand on his brother's shoulder, a look of pure anguish on his now unguarded face. 

"I don't know how I'm going to be able to provide care for him without falling apart myself."

He'd never seen anything so open and honest on Mycroft's face, even when it seemed Sherlock was dying when he was having a heart attack. The difficulties with this particular case always boiled down to Sherlock. 

John was cared for and Greg was situated. 

Mycroft had his extensive work. 

Sherlock was the bit that did not fit anywhere. 

As gently as he could, Miller offered a solution to Mycroft. 

"There are...excellent facilities. If he were to...begin acclimating to a new caregiver now, it would make transition to...any number of places, much easier. He's going to need steady help and care for some time, Mycroft. At the very least, someone to help him move about, prepare meals and the like. I'm sure Paul could make a recommendation, we could find someone to serve in this function." 

Mycroft shook his head adamantly. 

"No, no, I won't stick him with a stranger. He _hates_ people. Most people. He's got a rare few that he doesn't and even them he gets irritated by. He used to call me his arch enemy. No, I can't just leave him with a stranger. My only fear is that I will fail to function properly at my job due to emotional complications and be unable to provide for him."

Miller, being a well paid man himself, arched a brow at Mycroft. "Surely you've a fair bit put away, Mycroft? People in high positions have had to take sabbatical before. You've been tenured in your position for a very long time, it cannot possibly be a situation where you've no flexibility? You've no medical debt to worry over. Paul and I can work the system in your favor to get most of what Sherlock needs to your home without cost. If you took a year, are you honestly telling me that you are not the most skilled for the position in the whole of the world and they would not be crying for your return? Mycroft, you cannot be seeing the situation clearly." 

"I've money stored away, yes. But I'm going to have to support Greg and John as well. I'll get as much as I can from various government programs, and he still has a pension, but it's hardly enough to keep him on medications and in a nice flat. My position...they need me, frankly, and they'll not be keen on getting rid of me. They'll beg me to return when I am able. It's just..." 

Mycroft stopped himself. His logic wasn't matching up. His reasons for despair weren't fitting properly with the actual situation. 

After a quick check, Mycroft nodded to himself.   
"Fear of failure. I'm looking for a way out. I've never been a particularly warm and nurturing person, Miller. You must have deduced that about me. I'm glad to help, but I don't know how long I can keep this up without some sort of emotional breakdown. I do not wish to upset him in the process."

Miller sat down beside Mycroft and took a slow, deep breath. If Mycroft decided he couldn't do this, there was exactly no hope for Sherlock, and they may as well keep him sedated and cut off the pacemaker then and there. 

"Greg experienced all of that, did he not? Have you considered speaking with him? I mean, the man put me to the floor once, and I do not at all get that from him as base personality. He was under duress. He's upset John many times in the process, and they seem to be getting on." 

Mycroft ran his fingers back through his hair and breathed a long sigh. "I'm not qualified to help him. I'd like to, but what if I break down? I don't want to accidentally hurt him." 

Miller shook his head. "You are repeating Greg's words. None of us, save Paul, is qualified to help with the psychological effects here. Greg has made many mistakes, he has accidentally hurt John several times, and still they are thriving."

Mycroft shook his head. "I-No, I don't want to accidentally hurt him. I couldn't bear it. Look at him! He trusts me. If I ruin that somehow, and I know I will, he'll never be the same. This needs to be done by an expert. I can read all the books, study, know all the names of all the conditions he is experiencing, but I won't have the experience." 

Miller leaned back, giving Mycroft a moment, understanding that the man was in his own version of panic. When a full minute had passed, he spoke softly. 

"You have personally coached Greg Lestrade through anguished tears from having made an error. It is bound to happen, but who could replace Greg at this time for John? Who could possibly know John better today than him? It is the same for Sherlock. If you are refusing this role, Mycroft, then we _must_ get someone started with him straight away. I do hope that's not the case. No one calms him like you do. No one knows him as well. If you truly are stepping back, we need to bring Paul in here to help us find your replacement." 

Mycroft hated the idea of someone else holding _his_ little brother. "No." His voice was stern and he sat back down on Sherlock's bed. 

"I'm not turning down the role. I just need to be coached by Paul first. I need to know what will trigger him, how to treat him, and what to say. I'll need to meet with him weekly to discuss my own mental health as well."

Miller nodded swiftly. "Good. This is a sound plan. Paul often helped Greg pull John through the worst of it. When you've rested and are ready, we will schedule you time with Paul. Sherlock would not do better with anyone else. I am honestly relieved you are going to do this with him. He is...exceedingly attached to you." 

He imagined they'd have trouble when Sherlock woke, seeing as Sherlock looked the very definition of betrayed when he'd been put back down. 

"He'll be upset when he wakes. I promised him I would not let him go back into the dark. He'll be upset." 

Mycroft got up abruptly.   
"I need to go back to my home and think of a few things. He doesn't need me anymore, so I'll make the arrangements with Paul from home."

Miller watched Mycroft with clear concern. 

"Alright, Mycroft. That's fine. He...he will understand, he might not even remember. You are not alone in caring for him, please do not forget that you have support if you need it." 

"Good. Good. I'll be going then, if you've no further need for me." Mycroft gathered his things hastily and looked back at Sherlock once more. "Reports. I'd still like reports."


	23. Chapter 23

The last day had passed in easy moments between John and Greg. John's calendar was full of victories over bits of food and cups of tea, and Greg could not be happier. Though he'd not made another attempt at speaking to John about Sherlock since the first disastrous go, when he woke that next morning, he intended to try again. Though, as he cuddled down with John, perhaps after attempting a bit of bathing. 

He stretched as the sun came up, unaware that a letter was on it's way to their house from Sherlock, oblivious to how close to death the man was, how scattered and afraid Mycroft was. For Greg, there was simply John, John's struggles with food and water, and John's need to acclimate back to Sherlock. He squeezed the man to him, whispering good morning. 

John stretched his legs and his feet touched the part of the bed that wasn't warmed by Greg and his warmth, and he retracted them back into the warm little pocket of bliss. He smiled before he opened his eyes, a good sign that meant he was well aware both of where he was and who he was with. "Morning," he yawned and reached his arms over his head. When his limbs were less tight, he turned to Greg and wrapped his arms lazily around the man's neck. 

"Did you sleep well, love?"

Greg smiled warmly at John, simply adoring the times when John was lucid happy. "I did," he rumbled happily, glad to have the man there with him. Though, poor John, he was getting a bit...ripe for want of a bath, nearly a week home with Greg now. 

"How are you feeling? Fancy a cuppa?"

John sat up and pulled some of the covers with him. "Alright, sure. It's a lot less scary now that it's normal." He looked down at Greg and, as always, was calmed just by the sight of him. God, that man meant the world to him.

Greg sat up with him, happy to help. "Right then, let's go to the sitting room and I'll bring you tea and eggs." They'd worked up to something of a normal routine with the eggs. John was going to be served a full one today. Maybe he'd eat the lot of it. He'd also try the tea without the straw and see how John did. "Go on, up with you," he said again, smiling and stretching his arms over his head. 

John got up and stretched his legs over the edge before standing. His legs looked much better in his opinion. His knees were less knobby and his calves weren't bone thin anymore. He was by no means at a healthy weight, but didn't seem completely emaciated anymore. Perhaps just very, very thin. He nodded down and decided that as long as he didn't look at his actual skin, he could be happy about his appearance for the time being. 

The regular meals through the tube and the new habit of eating eggs and drinking tea had sparked his appetite, and he went to the living room to sit in his usual waiting place that didn't require him to be near the stove. 

When Greg finally settled down beside John, he offered the little plate and the cuppa, with a spoon but without the straw, and as was his habit began tucking in happily to his own food. In addition to the full egg, he'd set down a cup of very sweet yogurt, just in case John decided to surprise him, though he'd not much expectation. 

"We should get around to feeding those birds today." 

John went through his very careful routine of checking the temperature of the tea by leaving the spoon in, then touching it carefully to be sure it wasn't hot, then taking a tiny spoonful to test on it's own. It was tedious, and he did it twice, but couldn't bring himself to drink until after it was done. The routine wasn't born out of mistrust for Greg, simply that he didn't trust the water not to spontaneously change temperatures just to spite him. 

When he discovered there was no straw, John sat quietly for a moment, taking little spoonfuls with the cup close to his lips in an attempt to build his confidence. "I agree," he responded, grateful for a distraction. 

"Let's try that. I like the birds. Do you think they'll come close?"

Greg smiled, happy with John's efforts. They were likely going to have to do this in slow, slow steps, but whatever would work would do fine. 

"Oh, yeah. They are regulars, come every year, have no issues coming up and asking for a handout. Might have one land on you, who knows?" 

He leaned against John as he always did when John was trying tea or eating, constantly physically reassuring him. 

John's eyes were hopeful and he watched the birds wistfully for a couple of moments. Then, with the mug of tea in his hands, John looked over at Greg and gave him a knowing look. 

"I'm going to try it," he said in reference to the absence of straw, "but I don't know if it will work out." 

Greg set his food down and moved so that it was easy for John to see his face. He put one hand on John's knee and nodded. 

"I'm right here, you've got this, John. You've got this." He held his breath, deeply hopeful that John was able to manage it. 

John brought the cup to his lips with one hand and kept the other over his nose, which was a bit of an awkward way to drink, but it kept him a bit placated on the idea of it going up his nose. He took a small sip, which wasn't bad, but he knew he was going to have to take it slow. 

"I don't like having it so close to my face," he explained when he put the mug back down again.  
Greg exhaled in relief and nodded to John, "I don't blame you, I really don't. Would it be easier if I sat a bit further from you? Or if we put on the telly? You take your time, there is no rush, you're doing incredibly well John, incredibly well."

John leaned over more fully on Greg. 

"I doubt you being further will ever be the answer to anything, Greg. Perhaps the telly. I'll get through it, but I don't want to panic. It's already starting to scare me. I don't like having it near my face." John was placing his words in a very careful order to keep himself articulate.

_Near his face._

He didn't particularly need water near his face to bathe, not the most necessary areas at least. "One sip a day then, and you've done yours already, yeah? Maybe near your feet first? I'll get you a straw. It doesn't have to be near your face. You've done grand. Tuck into that egg and I'll get you a straw." 

He leaned in and kissed John's temple, giving him a hug before leaning back. "Okay?"

John was grateful for the understanding Greg showed him and he took his plate of eggs. "Alright, thank you. I'll try that. And...Yeah, I know I need to take a bath. I don't know how I'm going to do that. Can I just use the little wipes again?" 

Greg came back with a straw and settled down beside John. "I was thinking we could try damp flannels. Just enough to help you feel better, yeah? You can sit up, we can even do it in here in front of the telly, and nothing will touch your face. We can use the dry wash in your hair, that powder stuff, and I think you'll feel so much better. I've also got to insist we start taking better care of your teeth, but you still can use a bowl to spit in and a cup with a straw to rinse with. We will figure out what works without making you panic, okay? We won't put you into panic."

He clicked on the telly before John could answer, glad that an old Dick Van Dyke episode was on. "I've got you, and we are not going to get you panicking, okay? We aren't."

As he listened, John continued with his tiny bites of eggs. Back when he was a soldier, he would have inhaled the helping in one go. 

How things had changed. 

"I'll try the wipes, or a sponge with the bowl of water. I'm not certain, but I think stuff like buckets of water and wet rags would be..." His tone wavered towards the end and he swallowed hard. "Yeah, let's not have those." 

"No rags," Greg promised, getting up and walking into the bedroom, fetching John one blue pill to help with his anxiety. He smiled gently to him as he handed it over. "I've got a really soft sponge, and we can add a bit of nice smelling soap to it. Just a small bit of water at the bottom. It will be alright. It will." 

He pulled John into a very gentle hug as the telly played quietly. "You're doing really well, John. Really well." 

John didn't want to have to wash himself, but Greg always knew what was right. "I'll do it, then. Just give me a minute to eat this and calm down a bit after."

Eating was still stressful. Moriarty still shouted at him occasionally. He still flinched when he thought about what would happen if the abusive man had seen, and it still exhausted him to fight all that away, but he was learning and improving. 

Greg wrapped an arm around John and leaned him against his chest as John tackle the food. It was still one hell of a battle, but it was one John was going to win. Greg nuzzled against the side of John's head and spoke softly to him. 

"It's warming up a bit outside. We will get all this out of the way, and then we will go sit and feed your birds, and it will be lovely. Even if we just open the windows and lean out to feed them, it will be nice. Today is a good day, and you are going to get through this." 

He lightly rubbed John's arm, putting to mind to massage him later in the evening to help him wind down. 

"I've got you." 

John continued eating and slowly leaned more onto Greg as time went on. "I'd like that. We can go outside and see them. That would be nice. I’m glad it's getting easier. I haven't panicked in a few days." He looked up and gave Greg a relaxed smile. He knew a panic attack was inevitable, and he shouldn't believe himself capable of lasting forever without one, but he was on a long streak and decided to enjoy it. 

To John, each day without a panic attack was like another layer on a house of cards. He knew the fallout would be worse if he allowed himself to hope his mind would stay up, but each time he managed to rebuild it from the ground up he got a bit higher. Perhaps a day would come when he didn't need to worry about something setting him off. 

Greg gave John a full thirty minutes after he finished eating to just rest against him and watch the telly. He gently trailed his hand through John's hair and just sat in calm silence with him. He was just about to mention trying in with a bit of a wash when the bell rang. 

Greg's brow knit and he stood up slowly. "One second," he said quietly to John, moving to the entrance and seeing one of Mycroft's men through the small window. They exchanged a few words and soon enough Greg was walking back into the sitting room, envelope in hand. He sat back down next to John, knowing that the letters so neatly plastering John's name across the front were not of Sherlock's own penmanship. 

"Seems Mycroft has helped Sherlock write you a letter."

John had shrank back when the doorbell rang, but once he identified it as one of Mycroft's men and not a threat to his Greg, John relaxed and waited for the letter. 

"Can we read it?" John reached out and turned the letter over in his hands. It was clearly Mycroft's handwriting. 

"Sherlock can't write, can he?"

Greg shook his head, remembering the state of Sherlock's hands. Moran had delighted in ruining them. John's were a mess as well, he'd only had more time to heal and adjust. 

"No, he can't. If you reply, he'll have to have someone read it to him as well." Christ, that was upsetting. He drew in a deep breath and pressed a lingering kiss to John's temple as he opened the envelope.  
John could read the words, even if his vision didn't seem as sharp as it used to be. His eyes scanned the page and he nodded along, even though it all seemed so terribly wrong. 

"He doesn't sound right," John remarked and his face was pulled with sadness. 

Greg read over John's shoulder and hummed, wrapping an arm around him. 

"It sounds like Mycroft, I'm sure he was...trying to help." 

John was right though, it sounded nothing like Sherlock and it set worry off in his gut. He did not prompt John, curious to see how he would react to this. 

John slowly folded the paper back the way it had came and set it down on the table. If Sherlock couldn't write himself, and couldn't even dictate in a way that sounded like himself, then he was both mentally and physically in a terrible place. 

"What's wrong with him?"

Greg honestly didn't know. "I wish I could tell you. I haven't seen him or spoken to him since we left Mycroft's. He might just be...maybe he's just tired and a bit scared of the hospital? He'll probably be able to be taken care of somewhere else soon, yeah? We can ask Mycroft if you are interested." 

John's heart was beginning to beat a bit faster. "We should call him. I'm worried that something is happening. What if they've got him again? What if there's someone else who Moriarty hired and-" John took a deep, shaky breath. 

"Call Mycroft."

Greg nodded, opening his mouth to assure John Sherlock was alright before closing it again. It would do no good, he needed to hear from Mycroft. 

So he dialed the line and listened to it ring, holding John's hand. "He's okay though, John. Mycroft would not let Sherlock be hurt," he whispered as he waited for the man to answer. 

Mycroft picked up the line after the first ring. His voice was tight and anxious when he spoke an immediate question. "What is it? Is everything alright?" 

John leaned over so he could better hear and looked to Greg to continue.

Greg was surprised to hear Mycroft in such a state. 

"We received the letter. John has concerns that I was hoping you could put to rest, Mycroft. Everything is alright. John has been doing very well. I'm going to put you on speaker, okay? John is just worried that Sherlock does not sound himself." 

Mycroft, knowing he was on speakerphone and his job was to placate John, not give the real state of it, began gently. 

"I'm glad to hear things are going well. Sherlock had been under heavy sedation for a few days when he wrote the letter. His body needed to rest, and it was a good way to keep him out of pain. He doesn't sound like himself because he was very nervous about hurting you or saying something that might frighten you."

John brought his knees up to his chest. Even from a distance, his weakness, his cowardice, and his own emotional instability were still hurting Sherlock.

Greg clicked him off speaker then, putting the phone to his ear. "Thank you, Mycroft. Just you and I now." He kissed the side of John's head and got up, moving into the kitchen. 

His voice dropped much more serious, speaking in hushed tones to Mycroft. "How is he? Why was he sedated again?"

John knew full well what it meant when Greg took the phone into the other room. He dropped his head into his hands and verbally walked himself through why he should be calm.

Mycroft sounded distressed. "He had a heart attack. He's a pacemaker now, which was working, but his heart is stressed. They're keeping him under another week."

Greg swore and ran his hand down his face. "A heart attack? Jesus, MycroftI'm sorry. Pace- good god, that's...I'm sorry, I'm so sorry. Is there anything I can do? I'm working with John as fast as I can, will writing him back help? I, god, Mycroft I'm sorry." 

Mycroft's voice faltered for a moment. "Yes, it was...He's in so much pain, both physically and mentally. John had been allowed to heal over time with Moriarty, but I get the feeling that Moran kept Sherlock's wounds open intentionally. They aren't certain he'll live through this. If you could send him a letter, written by John, reassuring him that he isn't hated, you aren't mad at him, and John wants him to live, that might help."

Greg closed his eyes and braced a hand against the counter. He'd thought they had them both out of the woods as far as pure survival went. 

"Yeah, Mycroft," he said quietly, pressing his fingers against his eyes, "we can do that. We'll do that. I'll try and get it out tonight, okay? Please...please call me if you need someone to talk to. He's...Sherlock is strong. He...I'll talk to John about the letter. We'll get it done." 

He slowly walked back into the sitting room with the phone to his ear, moving to John's side and sitting down carefully.

"I know," Mycroft sounded so old and beaten down. "I'll call you if I need advice. For right now, he's doing as well as can be expected. Honestly, I don't know how he's alive. A letter would help. Maybe a picture if you can manage. Something nice with John looking happy. I'll print it for him. At this point, I'm just getting things together that might help him."

Greg wrapped an arm around John, pulling him in close. "We'll do whatever we can. Please keep us updated, Mycroft. I'll speak with you soon." 

He rung off and set the phone down, turning to pull John in a proper hug. "Hey," he whispered, knowing that John was struggling, "talk to me."

John shook his head and curled up on Greg's lap. Tears leaked down the sides of his face and he wiped them away to discover he had a bit of a beard coming in. It was completely contrary to how childlike he felt, and he decided that he could no longer call himself a man. Not after all he'd been through and what he's become. 

"I'm a child," he whined and pressed his hands over his eyes. 

"I can't help myself and I can't help Sherlock."

Greg shook his head, "Patently not true, John. And you can help him, if you want. You really can." 

He kept him hugged close and stared at the letter on the table. What if Sherlock died before John had a chance to remember? 

"Do you want to help?"

John felt small and weak. He reached up and felt his face and hair, which was unkempt and growing too long. "Yeah, I want to help." He sat up and wiped his eyes on the back of his hand. "Should I write back?"

Greg nodded, "Only if you want to, though. Don't force it, he's not going to be able to see it for a few more days. There is not a rush." He asks his fingers through John's hair and a new idea came to mind, though he'd bring it up later. 

"You are not a child, John. You are a man."

John shook his head. "I don't feel like a man." He brought his hand back up to his chin and wondered why a beard would even bother growing when he wasn't even close to a man. Shouldn't he be revoked the right? 

"I'll write it now. But would you? My handwriting is shit."

Greg nodded and got up, fetching paper and a brio. He returned to John's side and sat down, moving Mycroft's letter out of the way. 

"John. I don't like this. Tell me why you think you're not a man? You were feeling so well before this came. Please talk to me."

John didn't have a reason for why he felt small, defeated and worthless. He'd been so successful recently, and knew he had no right to be feeling as he did, but months of being treated as something less than human, less than even a dog, had altered his perception of himself severely. 

"Let's just write it, alright?I'm fine. Let's help Sherlock."

Greg forced himself not to get upset over that. John was allowed to feel how he was going to feel. He did not owe Greg an explanation. He leaned over the paper and looked to John, waiting for him to speak so he could write.

John wasn't sure how to begin. "If I mess up, just tell me. Don't write it if it's bad." 

He tapped his fingers on the side of his face.  
"Uhm...Dear Sherlock...I'm at Greg's house, and I'm doing much better than before. Are you alright? You didn't sound right. I'm sorry that you're hurting. I hope you feel better soon."  
John shook his head. 

"I sound like a child."

Greg had several bits of paper, and wrote the message as John had said it on the first.

"You might only be sounding that way since you feel that way. We've had some very normal conversations this week. Why don't you try talking to him the way you would if that were me in hospital?"

Greg in the hospital? John felt ice cold dread rush down his spine at the very thought. 

"I'd... God, I don't want that. I'd say that I loved you, and that I was coming to see you, honestly. For Sherlock...for Sherlock...Write; 'Dear Sherlock. How are you? I've been making progress and am getting over more things that hurt-' no, say 'more fears'. Ah, 'I hope you are doing well and wish you the best in your recovery.'"

Greg felt a stab of self loathing so sharp it stole his breath away. The contrast in the letters was sickening, and he felt a bit of the color drain from his face. How had he facilitated this...distance between Sherlock and John? He wrote the letter despite, and handed it to John to look over. He wasn't sure if he'd send this on to Sherlock or not. It sounded like business correspondence, no warmth or care in it, formal and dead.

What had he done?

"Is that...that the message you've...got it mind?"

John was staring at his hands. He was trying so desperately to sound like an adult and not a simple child that he'd restricted his own voice from fear. 

"Uhm...just tell him...tell him I'm worried about him, but make it sound like I'm alright, not the way I talk when I'm not feeling well. Tell him that I'll come visit him when I can, and that...I don't know. Tell him I hope he gets better? That it gets easier? I don't know...I'm rubbish at this." 

Greg set the brio down and pulled John into his arms, hugging him gently. 

"We are going to come back to this, okay? You're not rubbish at it, Christ _I_ never know what to say either, I just want to help but the words seem too hard, you know? And I don't have any of those mixed feelings that you do, I just love him out and out, and I've no idea what to do or say. Hell, I think I'm complete rubbish helping you, but you don't seem to think so. Try and breathe, John, just...just relax. Do you want to lie down a bit with me, just watch a film for a while? We can take a break, that's just fine."

John clung to Greg and was worried that the man would be upset with him for his failings. He wasn't afraid of punishment, but didn't want him to be disappointed. 

"You aren't rubbish at helping me. You're my life. You're the only reason I'm breathing. Let's do something else. I can make it up. I'll try...I need to shave, don't I? Maybe that won't be so bad."

Greg very much doubted that a glinting blade and water right near his face was what John needed in that moment. 

"John, you are free to try whatever you want, I just...want to make sure you're alright. You've nothing at all to make up for. If...if you want to shave, let's start with you brushing your teeth, yeah? Let's see how that goes and if you feel good, we can try shaving."

"Alright, yeah. Good. I'll do that." 

John stood up and walked to the bathroom door. 

"Can we do it in the kitchen? I don't...Yeah, I don't like the bath. It might be easier in there."

Greg shook his head and pointed back at the sitting room, "I'll do you one better and we'll get it done on the sofa, just go wait for me," he said warmly. He took a few minutes to gather John's toothbrush and a cup of water, dropping a straw in. He stopped off at the kitchen for a bowl, and brought the lot out on a dry towel which he set down on the coffee table. 

"Alright mate, toothbrush is already wet, there's a bit of paste on it already. Just scrub, rinse, and spit. No need for the lav or the kitchen."

John took the brush and stared at it for a few moments. "It's not a knife, needle, pair of pliers, or a drill. I'm fine with this." 

He tested it on his hand just to be sure there weren't any needles hidden among the bristles, and carefully started brushing his teeth. 

Well, this was progress. Greg kept close, watching the telly absently as John scrubbed at his teeth, hoping the act of something so familiar and normal would help soothe him and make him feel a bit more autonomous. 

He couldn't keep his mind off of Mycroft and Sherlock. He'd figured, in all honesty, that Sherlock would have already been released to Mycroft's care by this point. He drew in a slow, steady breath, staring at the screen without really seeing it, waiting for John to be done with his work. 

John was nervous by the time it was finished and anxious to be through. His gums were sore and his mouth felt a bit raw, which made him all the more relieved when he finished and sat back on the couch. 

"Done. I'm done. I don't like that, but I'm done."

Greg decided to make a judgement call, standing up and cleaning away their dishes and John's toothbrush. He tidied up for a few minutes before turning off the lights, turning up the fans, and drastically lowering the sound on the telly. He then toed off his shoes and settled on the sofa, building pillows up at his back before lying down, stretching his arms out for John. 

"I need a rest, and I really want to hold you. Will you just settle in with me for a little while? Please?"

John's face lit up instantly and he immediately placed his head against Greg's chest. The rest of his body followed and he curled up in Greg's arms happily and settled almost instantly. 

"Yes, God yes. I'll stay like this for as long as you'll let me."

Deeply relieved that John agreed, Greg pulled a heavy blanket over both of them and set one hand splayed wide between John's shoulder blades, the other he began to gently card through John's hair. They both needed a rest after that morning, and John had made fantastic headway already. 

They would tackle the Sherlock issue later in the day. It was going to be what it was going to be. If John didn't care for him much anymore...Greg could do very little about that. He would try, but he could not force John to feel things he didn't feel. 

John nuzzled down against Greg's chest and closed his eyes. Each time he was warm and with Greg, a sense of calm overcame him and he was able to forget his worries about the future. This was to be his life. He could do this. 

"Love you," he muttered and started to drift off.

Greg waited until John's breathing evened out and he fell down into sleep before picking up his mobile and starting to text Mycroft. 

_I know you don't care for it, but I'm very worried about you. Please remember that you can reach out to me, helping these two is incredibly difficult. How is Sherlock today?_

Mycroft picked up his phone and ran his fingers back through his hair. 

_I'm worried about myself. Sherlock fell asleep angry and betrayed because I told him I wouldn't make him sleep. Then I had him sedated. This is far more difficult than I had imagined._

Greg could not help but smirk at the text, feeling for the man but deeply understanding. He looked down at John, still feeling as though he'd hardly made a dent with him, despite the fact that he'd come miles and miles. He drew in a slow, deep breath, carding his fingers through John's hair again before responding to Mycroft. 

_In all of this, I've learned that they just need to be loved. Above everything, they just need to know they are loved. It sounds so foolish, but I swear to you Mycroft it is all that matters. While John is still...working through his difficult feelings regarding Sherlock, I will be sure to increase my communication with him. I do not want him to forget that he is deeply important to me as well. You just act with your best intentions, be sensitive to how he is reacting to what you are doing, and keep him feeling loved. The worst that could happen is for Sherlock to feel forgotten and abandoned._

He sent the large text and set the phone aside for a minute, a tear slicking suddenly down his cheek as he wrapped his John in a protective hug. John had spent months freezing, starving, in agony, all while sure his friends had abandoned and forgotten him. It was indescribably horrible, and Greg loathed that he'd never be able to take that reality away. 

Mycroft felt hopeless and useless, despite all the care he'd already provided for both Sherlock and John, even if indirectly. 

_Love? I'm not good at love! I'm going to do everything I can to make him feel that he matters. Right now, he seems to think himself a constant burden on John. He didn't want me to put anything about his recovery in the letter because he believed that his recovery would make John angry or upset. He believes John wants him injured. He was happy that he has scars so he can show them to John in hopes that John will see his pain and forgive him._

_I don't even know where to begin._

Greg read the text twice and nearly tossed the phone across the room, despising that Sherlock's mind had taken him there. Nearly as deeply, he hated that he had no idea if he'd ever manage enough to get John back to Sherlock. Mycroft didn't even have his brother home yet and he seemed ready to throw in the towel. His sibling, and he was already flagging. 

_Like hell you're not good at love. He clings to you, and you protect him. He cries and you soothe him. He reverts to the million languages the pair of you know, and you keep pace with him so he's not in the dark. You bathe him and give him water, clean him up if he is sick, what more do you believe love to be? As for where to start? There isn't a place. You take it one day at a time and you tackle what you can. The days get better, but it's a tedious and unpredictable process._

Mycroft wanted some sort of secret to success. He wanted a plan he could write out day by day and follow it to Sherlock's complete mental recovery. 

_I'm going to do everything I possibly can for him. I understand it will be tedious. There are so many things I need to correct with his mind! He thinks he is hurting John. That is the worst, because it is based in fact. He does hurt John when he's around him, but his torture has led him to believe it is worse than it actually is. He thinks John would be upset if he knew he was recovering. He doesn't want to die, but would be more than willing to if he thought it would help John._

Greg understood all too well. 

_John and I are working through it. He crawled up in Sherlock's bed. He smiled and recalled memories that were good. It's all still in him, it has to be. I've seen some of it, and it overrides the most ingrained, deep fear when Sherlock needs help._

_John was deeply worried something bad was happening to Sherlock when we got the letter. He does not want harm or pain to come to Sherlock. He is, however, still very conflicted on how he feels. We are working on it constantly. I've also got him drinking two to three cups of tea a day now! And he's nibbling food, eating about one egg, gaining weight little by little. He just brushed his teeth. Sherlock is physically much worse, but the damage to his mind is different. Keep hope, Mycroft._

It was not long before Mycroft responded. 

_Drinking? That's wonderful. I don't know how you manage it. I understand why he would be conflicted. I'm not asking John to love him like he used to, though I must admit that it would help Sherlock. I'm only asking that he get past tolerating him to the point where he actually enjoys being in his company. It might be a stretch, but I'd like them to be friends again. Sherlock needs John._

Greg hesitated. For a moment, it was difficult to find the words. John could effortlessly go on without Sherlock, but..a part of him would not be the same. 

_John needs Sherlock. This man that I have here is only a small part of John. I've seen John himself break through a few times, and that man needs Sherlock. I think he still loves him. I am working very hard to get him past tolerating as well. It is heartbreaking to see him so removed from Sherlock. I am doing everything I know how. Unfortunately it seems that exposure to Sherlock has been the most successful in getting him past the pure fear._  
There was a long pause before Mycroft responded. 

_Perhaps get him talking about why he loved Sherlock to begin with._

_Greg, I know this is a personal question, but what exactly are your feelings towards John? I know you love him. God, we all know that. You've been a blessing to that man and we couldn't have done it without you. But will it upset you to try and warm him up to the idea of loving Sherlock? I have to ask. If the answer is no, think nothing of it._

Greg read the message twice and dragged a hand over his face, his vision blurring. He looked down at the top of John's head and then closed his eyes, exhaling slowly. 

_How I feel for him doesn't matter and never has. Sometimes, for a day or two, I forget he's not...he's not mine. Sherlock belongs to him just as much as he belongs with Sherlock and I've not lost sight of that. It's always been in the message. I've always tried to get him to remember. My goal is to not just have John functioning, I want him to reclaim his life, and I cannot imagine a life for him without Sherlock as they were. I just cannot._

Mycroft understood the message. 

_Don't be too hard on yourself. He's yours just as much as anyone else's. He has forgotten Sherlock, and while I hope he will go back to him, he will always love you. That much is clear. I'm not sure if you can see his face when you hold him, but it is clear that he loves you. Perhaps we can work something out. I'm sure he will always live with you. When Sherlock gets out, he'll live with me. But eventually, we'll want to put John in the picture, and the man won't function without you._

Greg could not help the slow slide of tears that tracked down his temples. This was a part of the picture he did not like to look at. He deeply loved John, but if he were to be a true friend he’d eventually have to give him up. 

_He hasn't forgotten Sherlock, believe me. What looks like forgetful behavior is a fearful defense, his mind simply is exhausted and skitteres away from anything troubling. When Sherlock is brought up...his face, you can see it. There is fear, but under that there is so much more. That 'eventually' needs to be very quickly, actually. We will want to talk about that well before Sherlock is released. I know it stresses them, but the more they are together the better it gets each time._

Mycroft’s reply was quick. 

_You are a strong man. I don't know how you do this. Honestly, I don't know how you aren't hiding John away from Sherlock and keeping him to yourself. I know that if Sherlock were afraid of John, I'd hide him. I'd bring him away. I'd do anything to keep him comfortable. I can't stand to see him in pain._

Greg shook his head at that, incredulous to how unaware Mycroft was of his own self. 

_You've gone against Sherlock's desperate pleading before to do something you knew to be good for him. The pins and whatnot. It's fucking terrible, I mean, indescribably terrible to feel, but if it is to help them, then we do it. I love Sherlock too, they are both dear friends, Sherlock longer. I've saved his life, watch him become a proper man, seen what having John in his life has done for him. They...I hate this phrase, but it is as though they were made for the other. Who am I to stand in the way? It doesn't matter if I hurt, all that matters is John and Sherlock. That's how I force myself to do it._  
Mycroft’s response was the most human Greg had ever heard the man be. 

_Remember that you matter in the end as well. You aren't a tool. You are a human being as well. Remember to take care of yourself as well, alright? Do something you enjoy._

_Sherlock and John are perfect for each other. I don't know anyone else who would tolerate Sherlock like John does, and at the same time not take any of his usual behavior. The longest time Sherlock has ever been clean was with John._

Greg was in full on tears. The news of Sherlock's state, watching John pen such a detached and cold missive, his own culpability in John's failure to make progress with Sherlock, the knowledge that these were stolen moments that shouldn't belong to him personally all weighed in heavy on him. He desperately loved John, but even if Sherlock were not a factor, John would never...that would never be something John would be interested in with Greg. It was sick of him to even think of fleetingly. John had been raped for god’s sake.

He was doing his best to keep his breathing easy and steady, not wanting to wake or upset John. He blinked several times to better see the screen and replied. 

_I know, god how I know. I am trying, Mycroft. If Sherlock can come stay with me after hospital, we can discuss that. I know they need back together, even if John doesn't quite get it yet._

Mycroft didn't want Sherlock to go to Greg's right after the hospital. He wanted his brother in his own home, in his guest room which he could fill out with medical equipment, where he could work from home as much as possible and move his desk and computer next to Sherlock's bed and work when he slept. No, he didn't want Sherlock to go to Greg's, but it might be a good option. 

_I'll take him home first. I want him to be just a bit more stable before we toss him in with John. Do you need anything? I mean you, personally._

Greg shook his head and then cracked a smile at his own stupidity. He responded swiftly. 

_No, I'm fine, you've done so much for us already. I'm fine. Please keep me updated with regards to Sherlock._

He put the mobile down and pressed his hands to his face, comforted by John's weight against him, breathing in deep and slow as he tried to stem the flow of tears. 

_I will. Thank you for your time and patience._

John shifted and nuzzled down on Greg's chest as he often did in the night. He muttered something incoherent and sleepy before turning over so his back was on Greg's chest and his hands were loosely holding the fabric on his sleeve. 

Greg had no awareness of slowly drifting down into sleep. He cried silently until darkness overtook him, and soon enough he was back down. 

\----------------------------------------------------------------

Hours later, Mycroft's mobile chimed with a text from Miller. 

_Sherlock has been stable all day. Pacemaker has been very active, so we've made the right call, and he is doing well. Color is much better, blood pressure is down, breathing is fine when he's not fighting us. He's kicking back against the sedation, but he's still well down._

Mycroft was frankly exhausted and the message was much needed. His work was at a standstill and he stared at his phone for nearly a minute before comprehending the message. 

_Good, thank you._

\----------------------------------------------------------


	24. Chapter 24

John woke just over two hours later. He noted the saline tracks down Greg's face and his own expression became that of pain and worry. With light movements and quiet breath, he pulled the blanket up higher around Greg's shoulders and pressed s soft kiss to his cheek. 

Greg felt John shift and, tuned over months of caring for him, instantly came awake. He smiled gently as he felt John press a kiss to his cheek, opening his eyes and looking down at him, giving him a bit of a squeeze. 

"Did you rest well?"

John nodded, but his face was still drawn with worry. 

"Why were you crying?" He sounded just a bit older than usual, more like himself but still tired and broken, though not completely childlike. 

Greg reached up and touched his face, disappointed that there was evidence of his breakdown. He deliberated for a few moments. Honesty with John typically just made John upset with himself. 

"I...I just am sad for the both of you...I want to help and...I don't know how." 

Perhaps that would be enough. He was decidedly not going to tell John that he was already mourning losing him. 

John let out a small sigh of sympathy and shifted so he could sit up a bit beside Greg and hold him. 

"It'll be alright," he whispered and held Greg's head against his shoulder. 

"It's going to be okay in the long run, remember? We'll still have this. We can watch telly and feed the birds. We said that we'd go out for a pint again some day, remember?"

Greg couldn't help but lean against John and allow the man to try and comfort him. He nodded, eyes closed and biting on his lip. 

"I...he's my friend too. I'm not doing enough. I love him and he's..." John of course didn't know the whole of it. 

"He's suffering and I can't fix it. I just want...want to help and I...I want it to be okay for both of you in the long run." 

John ran his hands over Greg's hair and set his chin down on the top of his head. 

"I know. Greg, you've done more than anyone. You've been so helpful to me. I don't think you can properly grasp what you brought me out of. The terror...God, I was afraid to even exist. You saved me from that. You make me tea. And in turn, I can help Sherlock better. You're helping him through me. It will be okay for Sherlock and I, and it will be okay for you too. You're my best friend. I need you to know that it'll be alright."

Greg's eyes closed and his lower lip trembled for a moment as he wrapped his arms loosely around John's hips, his chest aching as _John_ spoke to him. He lived for these moments, when he could hear his fried in there, suddenly lucid. Not only lucid but also trying to comfort him, assuring him what he was doing would result in both John and Sherlock being alright. John seemed to honestly think it would be okay for him, but there was no way that could be true. All he cared about was them, they were all he had left. He took a moment to just pretend that he could speak to _this_ John at any point, as though it was alright to lean on him for a moment in need of comfort. 

"Okay, John. Thank...thank you."

John held Greg close as the other often did for him and kissed the top of his head. 

"I love you. I'm here for you. Even when...When I'm not this clear, I'm still there. The fear doesn't get rid of me entirely. I am so grateful to you for what you've done. I owe you so much. Someday, we'll go out and have a pint after a nice day of relaxing with the telly and the birds. Keep holding onto that. You need something to look forward to." 

Greg did not find that as calming as John, because he knew that without Sherlock in the picture, it would be wrong. He was a friend, and that was the limit of it, but Sherlock and John...even without a physical relationship it was more than friendship. Falling to the temptation to speak to John as he was in that moment, as he historically had been.

“What do we do? I can't tell if you...I don't know how to help you and how to help him. I...some days I'm sure you hate him and others it seems...I don't want him suffering and he is, oh god he _is_ and I don't...I'm sorry, I'm sorry John this isn't fair to you. I'm sorry." 

He had tears tracking down his face once again. The news of Sherlock's poor condition had been hard to take. 

John took a deep breath. He could feel his calm slipping. It would be so terribly easy to slip back into his comfortable state of childish ignorance and simplicity where he could pretend he didn't understand and block out the negative experiences that came with being self aware. 

"I don't know what to do. But I want you to promise me that you will always choose what is best for Sherlock. I know that isn't fair for me to ask, but you've already done so well with me. I'm not as fragile as he is. Or, at least, I wasn't to begin with. Just help Sherlock. Get me ready to help him. I know you can. I love you, Greg. Please know that. I truly love you."

Greg pulled back from John and looked at him incredulously. 

"I...I can't make that promise. He... I can't force you to-" he leaned in and hugged John desperately to his chest, seeing his expression clouding over, knowing he was losing him. 

"I love you too, John, I love you too." He dragged in a pained breath, feeling like he was saying goodbye, pressing his face to John's neck for one more moment in a pathetic bid to soothe himself a moment more.  
John felt himself losing hold of his clarity. It was like drowning. He was treading water when he knew he would eventually just slip under. 

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I can't-" John grit his teeth and willed himself to stay focused. 

"Just help Sherlock. But I need help too, if I'm ever going to be of any use for him. You're wonderful. I love you. I love you." John lost himself suddenly and began to cry. God, it was difficult to stay clear and above the childish disconnection. 

Greg drew John to his chest, helpless against his own tears, mourning the loss of his lucid and familiar friend instantly. John had bid him help Sherlock, but also him, and how was he to do both when he could only be here? It was too big, and Greg was not nearly enough, entirely too small. He held the sobbing man over his heart, carding his fingers through John's hair as tears ran swift and heavy down his own cheeks. 

John grabbed little fistfuls of Greg's shirt and his breath hitched. Another feeble attempt at fighting back to clarity failed, and he was left exhausted and dripping with self loathing. 

"It hurts," he whined, then caught himself. It didn't really _hurt_. "It's bad. I don't like my mind. It's so hard to focus."

Greg covered one of John's hands clinging to his shirt with one of his own, the other still trailing through John's hair. "You were clear for much longer that time," he whispered, grief weighing down his voice, "I'm sorry that it's hard, I know it makes you tired. I deeply appreciate when you do it, though." 

_I already fucking miss you. I'm terrified and need to talk to you. I'm not big enough for this. Help._

He pressed a kiss to the top of John's head, his own chest hitching as he wept. 

The haze was setting in around John's mind and things became far more simple. His concept of the future was dimmed, and the memories of what had happened faded from his mind. The pain was still there, sharp and frightening even as he clutched Greg for dear life. 

"I-I'm sorry," he began, "I want to help you. Why are you so sad? You know what to do to help because you already do it."

John was gone. Greg closed his eyes and silently mouthed goodbye against the top of John's head, grateful for the fleeting moments he was allowed to see his old friend. His brief moment of reprieve was over, though. It was time to pull himself together. 

"I'm going to be okay. Just got a bit tired. I'm okay, thank you."

"It's not okay!" John almost shouted. 

He was fairly upset with himself for having lost the fight once more, and he let go of Greg's shirt to bury his fingers in his hair. 

"You're sad and I don't know why! You don't just cry when you're tired! I'm not that far gone! I keep..." 

John's anger dissolved into bitterness incredibly abruptly. "I keep losing and I can't think and I know I'm not thinking right. I should know why you're sad. Is it something I did?"  
Greg reeled at John's shift. He shook his head and dragged his hands down his cheeks to clear them, instantly regretting the moment of weakness. 

"I'm sorry," he whispered, "I'm overwhelmed about Sherlock and I cried. I'm sorry." 

He tipped his head down in shame, pressing a hand over his face.

John reached up and pulled Greg's hand away from his face. 

"How bad is he? You left the room and took the phone off speaker friend so he wouldn't tell me. I should know. I deserve it."

Greg looked up at John, tearing up again as he nodded, "Okay John. He's....he's not well. His heart is very tired and they've had to put in a pacemaker. He's in a lot of pain. I..I'm sorry, you were so upset."

John put his head in his hands and closed his eyes. 

"Pacemaker. Right. He...Right. His heart isn't working right, then. Okay. He'll get better. Okay. Okay. He'll be alright. Okay."

Greg hated all of this. 

"He might be alright. They're...not sure if he'll...John they are not sure if he'll make it."

John kept his eyes closed and relaxed against Greg completely. 

"Okay. Okay. Okay...." He absolutely refused to accept that Sherlock might die, and his mind would rather completely shut down then consider that Sherlock might actually die and begin to rot. 

Greg shifted John and leaned back, pulling him to rest fully against his chest. With his free hand, he covered his eyes, breathing tight and controlled to keep himself focused. The urge to go and see Sherlock, to offer him whatever comfort he could, was nearly overwhelming. 

Sherlock was alone and potentially dying in a room full of strangers. 

The thought made Greg ill. 

"It's alright, John," he whispered hoarsely, sliding his fingers through John's hair, hating that it had come down to saving one or the other, "it's...it's going to be okay."

John felt numb. During these times of confusion, he lost sight of his purpose for living that existed outside of helping Sherlock and Greg. He so easily forgot that he wanted to drink tea again, or feed the birds, or go to a pub with Greg someday. He wanted to ask if when Sherlock left, he could get to leave too, but held his tongue. Such things generally upset Greg.

"I'm scared for him," he whispered and grabbed little fistfuls of Greg's shirt.

Greg nodded, "Me as well," he said quietly, hating that he'd put John in such a state. He'd not sounded like this in quite some time, relatively speaking. He drew in a slow breath, deciding to press forward while they were already down and struggling. No sense holding off until John was having a steady day. John himself had requested that Greg do this, as had Mycroft, and if it left them both a quivering mess then so be it. It could not be one or the other, it just could not be. 

"John, we've got to talk about him. We've got to talk about Sherlock, okay? This...you would never have been okay allowing yourself to hate him for things he did not do. Let's talk about it. He loves you, and I _know_ you love him. I know somewhere in there, you miss him. We have to talk about this."

John didn't want to talk about Sherlock. He wanted to be trained to help him, conditioned to handle the stress, but had no desire to speak about it. But, if it was what Greg wanted, he would oblige. 

"I do care about him. I loved him. If I still do, it's not the same. I miss what we used to have. I'm not the same person I was. I want him to be safe and it kills me when he's hurting."

Greg shook his head. "No, that's not true. It wouldn't kill when he was hurting if you just...felt base humanity for him. Why would it hurt you so deeply if he was just some bloke who betrayed you and broke your heart? That's not true, John. God help me I know it hurts to talk about, but we have to break through this wall. You need it for yourself, and Jesus does _he_ need it. You are his Greg, you know? He's been crumbling apart since you walked out of your flat." 

He drew in a deep breath, keeping his fingers moving gently on John's back, bracing for the chaos he was inviting. Sherlock’s agonized voice whispered through his memory, recalling the desperate plea Sherlock made on John’s behalf when he finally accepted that he could not be the one to help John.

_Promise me, Greg. You have to promise me._

John’s reaction was immediate and explosive. 

"I'm not his Greg! I'm not that...I'm not strong enough to be like you. You hold me together. I can't hold him up if I can hardly stand myself. Yes, I care about him more than I care for most people. I want him to be comfortable. But I just...I don't know if I want to live with him. But damn it, I'm going to. Greg...I don't know how I can explain. I still feel betrayed, like he fucking cut me up himself, even though I know he didn't. Even when I'm calm I still feel like he wronged me somehow. It hurts. I don't like it. And then he said he loved me and I just..." John sat up and curled his knees to his chest. 

"I just panicked. I didn't believe him. It made it feel worse."

Greg sat up right along with him, pressing forward. 

"Why did it hurt to hear him say he loves you? I understand why you didn't believe him before, but to not believe him now? That's just willful denial. He slit his own throat to take some of the burden off of you, John. He falls apart at the suggestion of hurting you. You are a brave man, John Watson, but for whatever reason you refuse to accept that your mind was _wrong_ and you cling to Sherlock as your scapegoat."

John shook his head and rocked himself back and forth. 

"No, no, no...He said it and I thought...it made it worse! I-I-" 

John was clearly in a great deal of pain. 

"It isn't my fault! Of course I don't want to be near him! By the hell should I? After what fucking happened to me I've the right to stay away from anyone I fucking want!" 

Greg nodded, "Yeah, you do, but you haven't stayed away! He's begged you to stay away because he sees it hurts you to even look at him, and you insist on going anyhow. You don't _want_ to stay away, hell, I couldn't keep you away! When he said it, what did you think? Finish that thought, John. What did you think?" 

John's breathing had grown chaotic and he pulled at his hair. 

"I thought he was lying! Why didn't he come for me?" 

John choked down a sob and shook his head. "Because he thought I was in Africa. I know. I know. He didn't whip me and he didn't abandon me and he didn't rape me. But I thought he did. And hell, I loved him anyway. I'm fucking pathetic."

Greg reached out and took John's wrists in his hands, easing his fists away from his hair, thumbs brushing the insides of his wrists as he moved to be eye-level with the man. 

"John, I need you to stay with me in this for a few minutes. I know it hurts, but I need you to push through with me. Look at me. You are safe right here. We are here, and you are safe." 

He cleared his throat and pressed on. 

"Can you try and focus on the real Sherlock for a moment? Put your mind to Sherlock as you know him to be, the true man, not the lie presented to you in captivity. Sherlock as he's been since you've been back, if nothing else. That man. How do you feel about _that_ man?"

John's chest heaved and he locked eyes with Greg. Desperately he fought down the panic and fear that was kindling in him and struggled for an answer. 

"He...Sherlock is sad, and in pain. He's broken and destroyed like I am." _I'm nothing. I've been beaten into a worthless mess of scar tissue and PTSD. Stupid. Weak. Worthless. I deserve this. I deserve it all._

John was flinching as if being struck with physical blows. 

Greg reached up and gently brushed his fingers down the side of John's face. 

"No, he isn't. I don't mean for you to describe his condition, I mean for you to describe _him_. The man who refused to leave your side even when he could not be in your room, who helped with the tapping, who put a bullet in Moriarty's skull and walked to Moran to keep his focus off of you. The man who came back and has shown that even while severely injured, would do literally anything to make your life the slightest bit easier. Talk to me about that man. I have you, John. Breathe."

John was shaking his head. None of this made sense. 

"I don't like this. Sherlock...He's good. He's been nice to me even when I didn't want him near me. I was horrible to him and he helped me tap. I know he loves me, Greg. I know he's a good man and he deserves better than what I'm giving him. But I...God, I'm sorry." 

John's face twisted in pain and he wrenched his hands free to pull at his hair. 

"He's a good man, and I can't stand him. I want to. I want to help him and I want to go to him and I want to love him again but the _whips_! I can hear them in his voice!" 

Greg's heart squeezed and he raked a hand through his hair. How were they to ever combat this? He was fighting the urge to scream, loathing that Moran and Moriarty were dead. He wanted to take them apart with his bare hands. 

Perhaps it would be better that Sherlock died. It may be a blessing in the end, the kindest option for him. 

Greg felt a flash of anger directed at John and ruthlessly stamped it out. This was not John's fault. It wasn't. John was subjected to expert, vicious torture for nine months. It was not his fault. 

"Okay, John," he breathed as he wrestled with the furious hopelessness swelling in his chest, near bursting out of his ribs. He had no idea how to combat this. "Okay." 

John shook his head as self loathing poured over him. 

"I'm-I'm SORRY!" He cried loudly and pulled out a chunk of his hair. "I'm trying! I know he doesn't deserve this! I know it! I'm awful and fucking weak! Who am I to hate him? Is what I endured worse than what he went through?"

Greg reached out and grabbed John's wrists as his heart seized up in his chest, staring in horror at the hair in his fist. 

"JOHN! Stop! I know this isn't your fault! YOU need to know it isn't your fault! Stop, oh god, stop! Don't hurt yourself. John, look at me, Christ, look at me. Look!" he gave John's wrists a very gentle little shake to get the man's attention, "This is not your fault. There is no 'who had it worse,' comparison, okay? What you went through was similar but different. He's trying, and you are trying, and that's the best we can do. John, please hear me, you are not horrible, you are _terrified_. This isn't your fault!"

John was trembling. He didn't understand how it wasn't his fault. In his mind, Sherlock was just being a good person and he was upset with him anyway. Dripping with self loathing, John knelt down on the couch, put his head down to the fabric and let Greg hold his wrists. 

"My fault," he lamented and suddenly attempted to jerk his hands free to bring them back to his hair. "It's my fault! I should have h-helped him more! I'm awful! I deserve this! I-I d-deserve t-to-" John's hands were open and claw like and he attempted to scratch at himself despite Greg's hold. 

Greg kept a very firm hold on John's wrists, effortlessly holding him in place. "You deserve love and safety. That's all you deserve, John, that's it. This isn't your fault! You were made to feel this way, you were tortured ruthlessly until you were scared out of your skin by Sherlock. This is not your fault! You have helped as much as you possibly can, _no_. I'm not going to let you hurt yourself. You do not deserve pain, John. Stop." 

John shook his head as his calm bled away. "I'm sorry! I'm sorry! I know he doesn't d-deserve this. I-I should get over this a-and h-hel-lp him!" In addition to feeling something sub-human, which wasn't uncommon, John now felt like some sort of villain. It wasn't bad enough that he was a battered shell of a man, unable to do good, but now he was doing harm. 

"John," Greg said gently as he drew John up by his wrists and swiftly wrapped him in his arms, pulling him close, holding tight enough that John would not be able to hurt himself without hurting Greg too, "I'm not trying to tell you that you are being a bad person, all we are doing right now is challenging what's locked in your mind. That's all. Breathe with me for a minute, love, breathe."

John was bitterly depressed. "I don't know what you want me to do! I don't know what you want! I love you, I love you so much. Just tell me what to do. I want to love Sherlock again. I don't want to feel like I got tortured and left for dead by my best friend! It f-feels AWFUL!" 

John tried to struggle away in order to get some sort of physical anchor to keep himself steady with. He dug his nails into his palms, but it wasn't enough. 

"I d-don't want to think h-he hurt me!"

Greg kept a tight hold of him, not allowing John to pull back. He held on and began to gently rock John. "I just want you to be willing to talk to me about him. That's all. We have to talk about him, we can't pretend like he's not around anymore. It's awful for you and it's awful for him. I want you to fight your own mind when you start associating him with pain. That's it, that's all I want. John please, slow down, slow down. I know you hate this, I'm so sorry it hurts."

John wept bitterly onto Greg's shoulder and the fight slowly drained out of him. With his muscles slowly relaxing, John shut his eyes and breathed as slowly as he could. 

"I feel like a bad person for feeling betrayed. I know it wasn't him. I know it was just tapes and his coat. I know he didn't cut into me or whip me or hold me in the water. But I can't seem to stop being sad about it, even if it never happened."

Greg eased his hold as John relaxed, and soon he was brushing a gentle hand over John's back, carding his fingers through John's hair. 

"You can still be sad about what was done to you. What needs to happen now is for you to start separating the two in your mind. Maybe when you think of what you thought was Sherlock hurting you, you give it another name. Don't call that lie 'Sherlock,' in your mind anymore. That wasn't Sherlock, it should have another name." He spoke very quietly, gently rocking him, hating that he was hurting John. 

John whimpered like an injured child and struggled with his own mind. 

"I know that it wasn't Sherlock who hurt me. I know it! I just...there's a certain trust that you get when you care about someone, and then when it happened, it shattered. I can't help it. I didn't want it to." John let out a laugh that had neither mirth nor inflection. "You know the sick thing? Even when I thought it was h-him, I didn't hate him. I still fucking loved him. In the hospital, I wanted him so far away from me but I went to him to keep him safe. In my mind, I was helping my rapist, and I did it anyway."

Greg did not know how to respond. He closed his eyes, carrying on holding John, feeling more and more hopeless. 

"I am sorry you have gone through all of this, John. I am. He...Sherlock would rather die than hurt you. Quite literally. You are not going to live with him. We will write him a letter, and...and we'll...we'll keep away from him while you still feel this way. If that's...if you never...he's been prepared to...he knows all of this, John. He knows, he's been trying to get Mycroft and I to let you alone, he hates that we are pressing you. If he's someone who can't come back in your life...then it is what it is."

John was wallowing in self loathing. Everything he did hurt someone, and if he tried to help he only made things worse. 

"I'm not giving up on him. I know you say I matter in this equation, but I'm not willing to sacrifice Sherlock's well being for my own. I'll get over this and help him. I'll live with the two of you and he'll be happy, and I'll get used to it. I'll get over this. It's just...I see him and think _how could you?_ Even though I know he didn't!" 

Greg shook his head, "You aren't understanding, John. He _loves you_. Would you want me to make myself stay with you, if you knew it hurt me to see you? I love that you want to help him, I do, and you can from a distance with letters and whatnot, but no, forcing yourself to tolerate him doesn't help either of you. It doesn't. Not without...I don't know, John. I don't know. We'll figure something out. I am so glad you don't want to give up on him." 

John shook his head and began to grow frustrated again. "I'd send you away if you hated being with me. But you said I needed Sherlock. I sure as hell don't agree with you, but I'll trust you. If you say I'll be better off when I trust him, then I'll desensitize myself the same as I've done with water." 

Greg had never felt more trapped in his life. Sherlock had always gone to bits when he'd seen himself inflicting pain on John. He closed his eyes and nodded, not knowing what to do. 

"Alright, John," he whispered, hating how inadequate he was. "when he's strong enough, we'll try."

John had his head in his lap. "That's the right thing, isn't it? He'll hate it at first. He'll be sad because I'm hurting. I'll be hurting him and I'll feel like an awful person. I'll want-" John's lower lip trembled. "I'll want to die. But eventually, I'll stop being afraid, and he'll be happy, right?"

Greg nodded, sliding his fingers through John's hair. "Eventually, you'll both be happy. That's right." No way in hell was Mycroft going to go for this. Sherlock would be in agony for weeks, perhaps months. He kept his eyes closed, deeply missing John, aching with his own failure. Maybe he just needed to go back to the water and food, and think about Sherlock later. 

But Sherlock might not have a later, and he may very well die knowing he was loathed by the man he loved. He huffed an empty laugh and pressed a hand over his eyes, the other still in John's hair. 

John was deeply confused, upset with himself, tired and depressed. He reached up and gently brushed Greg's hair back off his face. 

"I'm sorry. If I've said something wrong, just tell me. I don't know. My mind isn't right. I'm confused. Just tell me what I should do. Please, tell me what Sherlock needs."

Greg shook his head. "Nothing at the moment. He's strapped to a bed, alone, and out cold. He doesn't need anything." 

The words made Greg's chin dip, loathing that he could not help them. He drew in a sharp breath, trying to gather himself back.   
"I pushed too hard, I'm sorry. I...let's just lie back down, I'm an idiot and I should shut up. I've no idea what I'm doing. I'm so sorry." 

"No." John's voice was suddenly dripping with cold loathing, directed at himself primarily, but seeping into his speech nonetheless. 

"We're not finished until we resolve what we are going to do. If I leave him for good, it will hurt him, and you seem to think I need him. It will hurt him for me to live with him while I'm still afraid, but there doesn't seem to be another way. Adjacent flats? Neighbors? We need to get this out of the air so I can stop worrying about it. Please. I need to know what's going to happen."

Greg dropped his hand away from his eyes, staring at John, shocked at the hard edge to his voice. 

"What do you want to do, John? If you are only doing this because I think you need Sherlock, well, it's not going to work. It sounds like you've put in your head that it wasn't him, but fuck him anyhow. I don't know how to work with that. If you feel that way and you force him to be near you, you're going to destroy him. He didn't want Mycroft to send the letter at at, went into a panic that it would upset you. Was glad of his scars so he could show you that they hurt him properly. Christ,John, I don't _know_. I love you so deeply I can't explain it, and I love him too, and I don't know how to save you both."

John pursed his lips and nodded curtly. "Alright." There was clearly not going to a an answer from Greg. "I'll figure it out. So..." He exhaled heavily and stood. "I need paper. Where's the-" he picked up the extra sheets from the letter writing and began to scribble out a few lists. 

"If I leave him, he'll suffer long term, and according to you, I need him. So that's out." He wrote the option down then swiftly crossed it out. 

"I could live with him and eventually get used to him, but you say it would 'destroy' him to know he was hurting me. So that's out too." John had the option and it's cons listed under it. 

"I can live near him and try to get used to him less drastically. It will take longer, but we can spread the hurting out so it doesn't kill him." John had an almost pained look on his face and he squeezed the pen tight in a grip almost like a fist. 

_Concentrate._

Greg leaned back against the corner of the sofa and pulled a pillow to his chest, watching John with his chin propped up. Maybe John didn't need him. John spat such resentment for Greg saying as much, maybe he didn't need him anymore. He closed his eyes, aching terribly, lost. 

"You resented him more and more each time you went to see him at Mycroft's. Each time you left...he fell apart, and you clearly resent him for doing so. Why do you care what he needs? What does it even matter to you if he dies, or if he's hurting?"

John looked offended. He picked up his paper and held it almost defensively, as one would a precious drawing another had insulted. 

"Because I love him, remember? I don't choose to resent him. Stop saying it like it's my fault! I don't exactly control what goes on in here." John tapped the side of his head and there was a bit of manic energy in his eyes. "I don't control that I resent him. I fight against it. Can't you tell? Can nobody tell how hard I am trying not to hate him?"

Greg drew in a sharp breath as he realized what he was doing. He immediately moved, tossing the pillow aside, going to his knees to be eye level with John. 

"I'm sorry," he breathed, wide eyed in shock with himself, "I'm so sorry. I...I'm sorry. I know you are trying. It's not your fault. I don't know what's wrong with me I'm sorry, I'm...god, John, I'm sorry." He hung his head then, hands on his knees, breathing tight and controlled. 

"I keep seeing you there like that, and I-" he grit his teeth and stopped talking before he lost control of himself, wrestling to keep himself together. 

John looked down at his hands and nodded almost positively. 

"No. No, it's fine. I get it." His voice was tight and drawn like a bow string. "You're the right one. You always are. That must mean I'm doing something wrong. I'm making the wrong choices." John looked at his paper with his plans written out. Filled with sudden rage and hatred of himself, he tore it in half and balled it up tight before hurling it at the wall. 

"Wrong. Stupid ideas. Stupid stupid _stupid_." 

Greg forced himself to drag in a deep breath, trying to remain calm. He pressed a hand to his eyes, absently realizing he was shaking. What was he even doing? 

"No, John," he managed quietly, "No that's not true. I don't know what to do either, I'm not always right. I don't know what to do. I want to help and..." he shook his head, dropping his hand away. 

"Look, just...watch..." He pushed himself up and found a tape from his own birthday only six months before John left. He popped the disk in the player and stepped back, sitting down on the sofa and putting his own eyes to the screen. 

Molly was behind the camera, so naturally Sherlock was heavily featured. He and John were a rare few pints in, both handsy with the other as they always got when drinking, all fast quips and easy smiles right from go. Greg dragged a hand over his face, resting his chin against his fist as he watched the two men with one another. 

Strangers would have pegged them as partners, it was clear as day. 

Soaking in dejection and bitter hatred of his own mind, John curled up next to Greg even though he didn't feel worthy of comfort.

Each lash across his skin was deserved. Moriarty had been oh so careful not to beat him without a purpose. Of course, he'd make things up, give John impossible tasks and set him up for failure, but it always seemed to fall on John's shortcomings. John, therefore, always ended up blaming himself in a small way during each session.

In an attempt to get over his own pain, John looked up and stared at the screen.

It was clear to him now why people always thought he was Sherlock's date. John had one arm around Sherlock's shoulders and half a pint in the other hand. And God, did Sherlock look happy. 

"He watches me a lot, doesn't he? I never noticed that."

Greg could not help the way his lashes clung together, or how painfully tight his throat was watching them on the screen. He was in the picture now, getting ribbed by the pair of them. 

"Constantly," he breathed, focused on John's face. He nodded to the screen. "When I first met you, you were one of the saddest people I'd ever seen. You both transform the other." 

There was a moment where a beautiful woman crossed past the camera and caught John's eye, making him turn from Sherlock. The flash of hurt was so clear on Sherlock's face that Molly at the camera could be heard drawing in a sharp breath. The moment was gone as fast as it was born, and with John's returned attention Sherlock was immediately restored while Greg's laughter run out at a joke Sherlock had unwittingly failed to get.

The pain on Sherlock's face was so honest and raw that John gasped. 

"He never...Sherlock never looked..." 

Since when did Sherlock show emotion that easily? John was even more confused now than when he began, but one thing was startlingly clear. He and Sherlock had something incredibly special that he hadn't understood or appreciated at the time. 

"I just...it was just a girl. We weren't a couple. He always said-" John stopped and forced himself to think. Each and every time someone had accused them of being a couple, John had retaliated and corrected them. But Sherlock? The one who always corrected everyone on everything from grammar to science? He had always been silent. 

"Jesus," John muttered and looked down.

On screen, John and Greg were both simultaneously trying to tell a story they both had been party to making, each filling in details or continuing when the other was laughing too hard to speak. Sherlock stood by John, and it was clear from his expression that while he didn't quite understand the humor, he was glad they were including him. John made an attempt to get off his stool and stand, which resulted in a bit of a stumble. Sherlock, of course, righted him, and John noted that his hands lingered just a bit longer than he had realized at the time. A simple, "Thanks, mate," from a drunk John lit up Sherlock's face and the sober, depressed John watching the film turned away.

Greg closed his eyes and stood up, taking John's refusal to look at the screen as a sign that he couldn't bear facing Sherlock any longer. He dragged his hands across his damp eyes, deeply saddened. 

"I'm sorry, I thought it would help explain..." 

He turned off the recording and dropped back down on the sofa, face in his hands, elbows on his knees. 

"I...maybe I'm wrong. Maybe that's gone for you and I shouldn't-" he drew in a few short, clipped breaths, "I'm sorry, this...maybe I'm just being selfish here, I'm sorry, John." 

John linked his hands together behind his neck and covered himself with his forearms. Bitter loss pulled him down and smothered him. 

"I lost that. I had Sherlock, and I had you, and I had friends, and it's gone." 

Tears poured down his face and he suddenly turned to Greg. 

"Please don't leave me," he sobbed, "I can't lose you too."

Greg pulled John onto his lap and wrapped him up tight in his arms. 

"You've not lost any of it. You're not losing me." He held John tight, rocking him to soothe them both. 

"John, Sherlock still loves you just like that. Molly has been begging to see you. Mrs. Hudson asks after you all the time. We get emails from your coworkers. People love you, John, you've just not wanted them around for obvious reasons. You didn't lose a thing, none of what we just watched is gone." 

John pointed to the now blank screen and his breath hitched. "I want to go back to that! I want to be his friend again! But I don't know how to get used to him again without hurting him."

Greg closed his eyes and breathed in deep, exhaling slowly. "Okay, John, okay. I have videos of him and recordings of him and...and maybe that will make it easier until he's strong, but that's...he's not going to be strong for a long time. I...maybe we can drug him or something...we'll figure out something." 

"Don't drug him. I'll just watch these." John looked around for the remote then turned the video back on. It was such a happy memory.

Sherlock always seemed to hover just beside or behind John and always kept his eyes on him. And John, while still very in tune with Sherlock, engaged in conversation with everyone. After nearly twenty minutes further into the video, Sherlock was leaning on John who was waving for another pint.

"He's always...Jesus, how didn't I see that? He didn't just love me, he was in love. I didn't see. I didn't- you know, he flat out rejected me the first time we met."

Greg hummed and nodded, "He would have, yeah. You know him, he's not the sort that would ever entertain the idea of love, especially not with a bloke he'd just met and was trying to room with. John, everyone calls him a freak, or worse. He doesn't believe he can have friends, even with me I know he thinks I keep him around for his usefulness. Love was never something he'd ever considered he could have. You took him out at the knees. He didn't know what was happening himself. He didn't know until he knew he was losing you." 

Greg shrugged and hugged John tighter to himself. 

"We all told you two, but you both plugged your ears." 

John though back to the instance where he'd watched the girl and his expression fell even more. 

"God, I had woman over! I mean, he came home once when I was in bed with one! He never...I'd say something like; 'I'm staying at Sarah's tonight,' and he'd come back with; 'why should I care?'" 

John shook his head.   
"God, I'm an idiot. He was always pulling me away from dates. He'd dig up dirt about them, past marriages, kids, whatnot, anything. I...Jesus..."

Greg held John close to him, breathing slow and deep. "And he did what he could for you and Mary, and when she...when you lost her, he stopped taking cases for months. But I don't think he knew it as anything more than deep affection, John, you were not the only one not to know."

John ran his fingers absently over Greg's shoulder as he spoke. "If he looked that sad when I was just eyeing up a lady, he must have been...but he seemed alright enough on my wedding day. A bit anxious that things would change. I knew I loved him, but I never thought about a relationship with him. Well, not really. Not once he made it clear how opposed to it all he was. And I wasn't gay...but..." He looked up at the screen. 

John and Sherlock were engaged in some sort of banter that involved a fair bit of unnecessary, playful shoving. John made a quip, to which Sherlock responded with a brilliant bit of psychology that John would never hope to understand. He stood blinking, an open mouthed smile on his face as he often did when Sherlock displayed such intelligence. "That's brilliant!" 

John couldn't hear it all that well on the tape, but he remembered saying it. 

Sherlock was beaming, glowing; radiant and delighted. 

"I didn't know. I never knew. I thought...Jesus... I wish I could go back."

Greg leaned back slightly, eyeing John. 

"Why do you think you can't? I know it's...complicated for you, but if you can find it in you to forgive him, none of this has changed for Sherlock. He...god even when he was falling apart and in pain, he was doing what he could to help you. John he still loves you like this."

He held his breath, heart racing, braced to hear that John, despite this, was still done with Sherlock.

John looked up at the screen. 

"He loves me like that? I don't know if I still do. I don't! I don't think he would be happy with what I could give him. I won't be _his_ like I was then." 

John nuzzled his nose under Greg's chin in an affection seeking gesture that generally meant he was feeling rather down. 

"I'll help Sherlock in every way possible. I love him. I'm sure I'll be good friends with him again. But now that we both know...won't it be awkward?"

Greg closed his eyes, letting John cling to him, his own heart aching. What had he done? What the fucking hell had he done? A pained sound of defeat slipped past his defenses and he pressed his hand to his eyes, fingers shaking.

"Maybe," he whispered, actively fighting back tears, "it might be...I...I don't know he...He managed while you were married maybe he'll...I don't know..."

John whimpered and put his head down. 

"I don't know what I'm suppose to do. You don't know. Nobody knows. Why don't...here, let's start a new list. You can do it so it isn't stupid like mine. Let's write the options and then write the...the conse-" John flinched hard. No, he did not like the word _consequences_. 

"The p-pros and cons of each choice. We can figure out what we're going to do."

Greg dragged his hands over his face and tried to get himself together.

"John I...your list wasn't stupid, it's basically what I would write. I just...god I...is this making it worse? Now you know but you- it's just...it's n-not your fault, none of this is your fault, I'm scared for him and...I'm so sad for you and-" he shook his head, hating himself.

"Can you just write him? He's scared and alone, can...I know you don't feel...I know he's not that person for you anymore but can you please just...something for him?"

John was not satisfied with just writing a letter. He wanted to know for sure what was going to happen in his future, what pain he could expect and when to expect it. But if Greg said it was to be a letter, then a letter it would be. John took the paper and held the pen in his damaged hand. 

_Dear Sherlock_

_I'm sorry. I want to help you because I love you, but I keep messing things up. My brain hurts. It's not you, it's my mind. I hate it. I saw a video today of us at a pub for Greg's birthday. Molly was there too. We looked really happy. I hope we can do something like that again._

John looked up at Greg and handed the letter to him. 

Greg read the letter and then set it back down before reaching over and pulling John into his arms. He ran fingers through John's hair and rocked him gently, breathing tight and slow. 

"That's...that's brilliant, John, it's brilliant. I- yeah it's...even if you just leave it at that, it's something for him to always know." 

He tucked his face down, eyes closed as he rest his chin on John's shoulder, hating himself more than he had in a very long time. 

"I- I'll give it to them and he'll always know you...at least that you don't hate him. Maybe that's where it has to stop." 

John was tense while Greg read the letter. He felt like a school boy watching a teacher grade a test that would decide pass or fail, summer school or playing Indians with his friends. When he spoke positively, John slumped over onto him and closed his eyes. 

"Is that enough for the day? Wait! No! We need to write the list and find out what we're going to do!"

Greg eased back and looked at him. "Okay, John. Okay." He dragged over the paper and pen, and stared at the blank paper. What the fuck were they supposed to do? He closed his eyes and tried to think. 

_ Sherlock lives with us _

_Pros:_  
Close contact  
Constant exposure  
Fastest way to heal John 

_Cons:_  
Sherlock will be in pain  
John will be in pain  
Greg can only be in one place at a time 

_ Sherlock lives next door _

_Pros:_  
Close  
More frequent contact 

_Cons:  
Sherlock would be alone a majority of the day_

_ Sherlock lives with Mycroft _

_Pros:  
Sherlock is comforted by his brother_

_Cons:_  
Limited contact  
Likely drift apart 

"Do you have anything to add? I don't know what to do here." He stared at the page and hated all the options. 

John looked at the paper. 

"I can't start living with him immediately, so this one is...hang on," John was about to cross out the top of the list, but instead wrote a '3' beside it. 'Sherlock lives next door' was labeled '2', and 'Sherlock lives with Mycroft' was given a '1'. 

"We can do it like that...?"

Greg nodded, staring at the paper. He was try to imagine Sherlock living predominantly alone at any point and failing to do so. "Yeah that's...in stages, we can try that." 

Christ, they were going to lose Sherlock in the end. 

"We can try that."

John shook his head. "This will be bad for him too. He can't live alone! I'm being stupid. Stupid, stupid, stupid." 

John dug his hands into his hair and took a long, slow breath.   
"Maybe we could...He could live with Mycroft, then...Maybe if he lives with him a bit longer, we could skip the step in the middle. I could visit more, or he could visit here."

Greg reached up and took John's hands, unnerved from the chunk of hair John had ruthlessly torn from his own head. 

"You are not _stupid_ , John! This is _hard_ , I don't know what to do either! You are not stupid, you are brilliant. Stop telling yourself you're stupid, you're a top of the line trauma surgeon for god's sake. You are not stupid. You are traumatized. Maybe he can live with Mycroft for longer, we can try that."

John pulled his hands away from Greg and put them over his face. 

"If I were smart, I'd have figured this out. Fine. Fine. Let's just drop it. He'll live with Mycroft, we can start visiting frequently, then he'll move in. That's our plan. We're done."

Greg put his hands in his lap, staring down at the floor. "Okay, John," he said quietly, standing up and taking away the papers, folding the letter for Sherlock and putting it somewhere safe. He walked into the bedroom and gathered John's medicines. He slowly returned to the sofa and sat down, running a shaking hand through his hair. 

"Will you take your medicine? I've brought the anxiety pills if you want them, it's up to you."

John snatched the anxiety medicines and took them dry. There were so many things he had wanted to do that day, but the conversation about Sherlock made him feel exhausted, vulnerable and raw. "What now? We were going to do things.."

Greg slid a hand over his face and checked the time, shaking his head. "John it's already late afternoon and I've done an amazing job of fucking up the day. Let's just sit down and watch something. You drank and brushed your teeth, and you ate an egg. We made progress today. Unless you want to feed the birds, let's just..." he dragged his hands over his face, trying not to scream, digging his fingers into his scalp. 

John recognized the movement and reached up for Greg's hands. 

"Okay, love. Let's go watch the birds. We can forget how-" he was about to say how stupid I've been, but decided better.

"We can forget how bad it's been and go feed the birds. It will be nice. Let's get some bread and see if we can get them to come close."

Greg nodded, still fighting off tears. How was he supposed to carry on knowing what was going on with Sherlock? Slowly he forced himself to his feet and walked into the kitchen. He stopped there, leaning against the counter he gave himself a moment to cover his face and dissolve into tears. For a full minute he was lost to it, silently sobbing, ruthlessly pressing his palms to his lips to keep quiet.

He was back out to John soon after, bread in hand, almost breathing properly. He gave John as much of a smile as he could muster. 

"Let's go see your birds."


	25. Chapter 25

John looked up at Greg sadly when he entered. So much had happened. He'd found out about Sherlock's condition, realized what he'd lost, discovered just what an incompetent fool he was and managed to make Greg cry all in just a few hours. 

John scrambled in his brain to find some small way he could make it up to Greg. He'd had tea, an egg, brushed his teeth, hell, he was doing good all things considering. 

John followed behind Greg and watched the birds flitting about with wide eyes. It had been so long since he'd seen them up close, he'd almost forgot about all the little mannerisms of song birds. 

Greg sat down on the plush rocker bench and settled the stack of bread on John's thigh. The afternoon sun was setting, just warm enough to keep them from being to bundle up. Greg tore off a bit of bread, tossing it towards the birds.

"Throw it closer and closer and they will eventually come happily to your hand."

John squinted at the bread and wondered why it seemed so harmless when he knew it wasn't meant for him. 

There was a little bird with pleasant brown and white markings on it's wings that John spotted. It hopped closer when it was tossed bread, and John continued with his little trail. 

"The birds aren't afraid of food." What sort of living being was afraid of food? 

"Food has never meant pain for the birds," Greg countered quietly, his breath hitching as he continued to try and calm himself. He stopped throwing bread, leaving John to the task, wanting the little peeping birds to go to him.

John was about to throw a piece of bread to the bird when he suddenly changed his mind and ate it himself instead. If he didn't think about it, it wasn't so bad. Perhaps that would be how he could improve for Greg. The next piece he tossed for the birds, and after that ate a piece, alternating to keep himself calm. If a fucking bird could do it, so could he. 

Greg watched in stunned silence as John fed himself between feeding the excited little birds hoping about his feet.

He had one. He could save John. He could save John. Perhaps it would be best if they forgot...but how the fuck could he do that? He couldn't...He couldn't just leave Sherlock. He couldn't.

But he couldn't save him, either.

He watched John and tried to simply invest in that victory. John was willfully eating. That was...amazing.

John stopped when his hands began to shake and looked over at Greg for approval. Was it working? Was Greg happy with him? 

Nervousness and fear of being inadequate sawed at him and he tried for a smile. 

"I didn't think you were going to eat," Greg said with a quiet smile, picking up one of John's hands and pressing a kiss to his knuckles. The little birds were still hopping about in excitement. Greg was still reeling internally. For John, he'd learned how to act.  
John smiled back at him and relaxed fully. With that out of the way, he could continue trying to coax one of the little birdies over to him. 

"Is it going to come right up to us?" 

The bird hopped closer, then went back, then closer, then back, as if trying to decide if the human was a danger or not. 

Greg hummed, smiling as he watched the little thing. "Patience," he whispered, watching John with the little creature, "likely can get it to take the bread from your hand."

John leaned over in the chair so he could reach the ground and tossed more bread in little steps. He noted that the bird did much better if he made tiny steps rather than trying to get it to come forward all at once. 

"Come on," John muttered, "I won't hurt you." The bird, enticed by the bread just past John's fingertips, came hopping forward once more. 

Greg watched John and bit down hard on the inside of his lip. John was incredibly gifted at coaxing the little thing. It had taken Greg days to get the birds that close. If only it had been him taken, and not John.  
But that wasn't what happened. And as easy as this was, John and Sherlock were incredibly complicated. He felt a tear drip off his cheek and subtly tried to wipe it away. 

"You're very good with them."

John saw that the bird had seemed to reach a decided limit on how far he would go, as if there was an invisible line drawn he simply must not cross. 

"I understand what's happening," John responded and got a larger chunk of bread. He tossed it just on the other side of the bird's line, where it wouldn't have to step again, but could simply reach out its neck and pull the food back to safety. Once the line was broken, John was able to coax it step by step towards his hand. 

"I know what's going on inside his head."

Greg nodded. "I'm sorry I...I don't know how to do that properly for you. I'm...I swear I'm trying to understand. I'm...I wish you had someone better to help you." 

He dashed the back of his hand across his cheek again, furious with himself. 

"Can you tell me what you understand with the bird?" 

John nodded and pointed to where the bird had gotten stuck again. 

"He doesn't trust me. See? Every time I move, he jumps back. But there's this line, see, near the leaf? He won't cross it. If I drop the bread a few inches behind it, he'll go up to it and stop. But..." John tossed a fairly large chunk just out of reach. 

"It's not so much of a stretch for him to just lean over. It's like...Have you heard the thing where if you put a frog in a pot of boiling water, he'll jump out? But if you put him in warm water and _slowly_ raise the temperature, he'll be cooked before he notices the water's heating up."

Greg nodded, John's words for whatever reason making him tear up dangerously. He was carefully controlling his breathing, feeling utterly inadequate. What was he _doing_? John needed so much more than him. He'd tried this method with John for months. 

But the bird wasn't screaming. 

The bird wasn't begging mercy, wasn't staring in betrayal, didn't believe he'd been raped and beaten and tortured by his own friends and caregivers. The bird just hopped. The bird could fly away like John had so often dreamed of doing. 

Greg sniffed hard, chest buckling as he viciously stamped down on a threatening sob, dragging a hand through his hair and looking away as he fought for composure. 

John heard Greg's sounds of pain behind him, but for some reason was convinced that getting this bird to eat out of his hand was the most important thing in the entire universe. Sherlock could prattle on about quasars, but this bird was the most interesting thing John had ever seen. 

It was just an inch away now, and John kept one hand on the ground and dropped food into it with the other. Hopefully, it would make his hand less threatening and not a moving part so the bird could get used to it. When the spotted bird finally reached forward hesitantly and plucked a piece of bread from the top of John's fingers, it seemed to lose what qualms it had with being this close to a human and waited for the next piece. 

Greg picked a spot far away from them, close to the horizon, and watched the clouds as he struggled with himself. 

_Sherlock was happy about his scars, so that he could show John…_

Slowly he lifted his hand and covered his mouth, his back mostly to John as he tried to get a grip, 

_They don't even know if he'll live._

Jesus, what if his phone rang and Sherlock was dead? _Dead._ How would they ever...the idea of Sherlock dying believing John and Greg had just tossed him aside...and here John was better at...he couldn't do fucking anything for any of them and... 

He closed his eyes as hopelessness settled heavy on his shoulders and grief twisted around his chest. At least John was calm and focused on something other than Greg, who would have loved to find an excuse to be alone for a moment to compose himself in private. He'd never disrupt John from his birds though, and so he remained, feeling smaller than that little sparrow, drenched in defeat. 

The bird was finally on John's hand. It had taken over an hour, and more bread than he thought a bird could eat, even if it was the beginning of spring. It hopped in a small circle on John's scarred palm, though it didn't seem to mind that his hand was marred and ugly. 

"Look, Greg," John whispered, "I've got it." 

The bird was light, it's little talons sharp but not painful due to it's tiny size, and it bobbed its head about in a way John found very amusing. 

Greg slowly turned to look, and sure enough, John had a little bird hopping about on his palm. He very carefully drew out his mobile, slowly leaned back, and while John was smiling at the little creature snapped a swift series of silent pictures. 

"That's brilliant, John," he whispered, resting his mobile at his side, watching John with the tiny animal. 

John didn't want the animal to fear him. If he tried to move his hand now, it would scare the bird away. "I want it to remember that this is okay. Maybe tomorrow I'll try to move my hand. But..." John tossed a piece of bread away from his hand and the bird hopped after it happily. 

"Not today."

Greg had never felt more chastised in the whole of his life. He'd done _everything_ wrong. He watched the little bird hop away happily, sure he'd never be able to breathe properly again. He knew he should speak, should do something in that moment, but he was paralyzed with the weight of failure. It all seemed so simple, so fucking simple, but he couldn't ever get it right. John never left anything just...happily moving away. It was always screaming or tears, because Greg endlessly did it _wrong_. 

John smiled as the bird hopped away. 

"I was good with pets when I was little. See, now he's happy. He got food. If I just pressed on until I scared him, we'd have to start over, or at least from farther back. Now, it was all good, and he knows it." 

John had trained his dog when he was just a boy to do a wide variety of tricks, and always had a knack for gaining the trust of strays. 

Greg closed his eyes and absorbed the words as they came. He was ready to reach into his chest and rip his own useless heart out, choking on his guilt. 

"I-" he shut his mouth. How _dare_ he even consider asking John to forgive him? He dragged in a trembling breath and forced himself to pick up his mobile, texting the picture of John to Mycroft with a swift note: _He wrote a wonderful letter for him as well, will leave it at the door for your men to get._

When he set the mobile down, he dared glance back at John before swiftly dropping his eyes away, wishing someone would just fucking shoot him in the face and have done with it before he totally destroyed John. 

John didn't understand Greg's sadness. He had no inkling that his actions with the bird would have upset him so, as he viewed it as a positive event, not a demonstration of the man's shortcomings. John leaned up and kissed Greg affectionately on the cheek. 

"Are you alright? I mean...I know you're not. I know that. But...What's wrong?" 

Greg shook his head and then looked at the little bird still happily bouncing around John's feet. 

"I've done everything wrong. I- Jesus I'm so _sorry_ , John, I'm so sorry! I tried so hard not to scare you but then we didn't get anywhere but then we did and then I made it worse and now he's dying and you are sad and I've made everything _worse_!" 

Tears were running freely down his face as he stared at the little bird. "You deserve so much better! I- look what you managed with this little bird in an hour, an _hour_! It took me days to get them anywhere- Christ, John I'm- I've held you back, I'm making it _worse_!"

John looked down at the bird by his feet. If he stood up suddenly, it would be frightened. John didn't want to frighten the bird, as for some reason he had latched onto it and needed it to be safe. John took a piece of bread and tossed it away from him so the bird would be nowhere near him as he stood.   
"See? It'll be alright. It's not scared. I got a bird to stand on my hand because it's a bird. It wanted food. It wasn't afraid of the food. Just like you said, it wasn't beaten or tortured or raped. It's a birdie. It knows nothing of that." 

John got to his feet and took Greg's hand. 

"Come on. Let's go lie down. Would you hold me? I'm tired."

Greg stood up and allowed John to pull him, following along with his heart twisted into painful knots. He moved to the sofa and sat down, lying back so that John could rest on his chest. He opened his arms and pulled John gently down to rest against him, closing his eyes as his chest stuttered, trying to breathe properly. 

For a wild moment he remembered John's heavy dosage of pills and considered getting up and taking the lot of them. But it was too late. John was already attached to him. He pulled the blankets over John's shoulders and rest a hand on John's back, the other curled up near his own lips as he tried to soothe himself back down.

John wanted desperately to make Greg happy again. He'd tried with the bread, which had worked a very small amount, and the bird had seemed to upset him even more. "I love you," he began, but it didn't seem to be enough. 

"I am so grateful for you. Do you remember in the hospital how you gave me your badge? You said you were going to help me? I thought you'd just shoot some people and leave. I didn't think you'd stay by me for...has it been a year? It's been a long time, Greg. You devoted your life to an insane, screaming man strapped to a bed who couldn't speak or drink or even think certain words. You...you taught me to speak, and now I'm saying I love you. You're a good man. I want to be more like you."

Greg wrapped his arms tight sound John and held him close, whispering his thanks. "I love you. You don't need to be anything like me. You're a better man than I ever could be."

He closed his eyes and breathed in deep. "I'm sorry I haven't done better, I'm trying, I'm trying, John."

John was incredibly grateful for his Greg. Greg had taught John to speak, and John had spoken _I love you_. 

"I might be a good man, but I'll never be as kind as you. Or as patient. You're my life. I'm going to go to sleep now. Can we sleep? I'm tired. You look tired too."

Greg nodded and carded his fingers through John's hair, closing his eyes and trying to find a place in his mind that didn't feel coated in fiberglass. He hated himself so deeply that breathing was painful. He'd never have thought watching John feed the birds would be one of the most painful things in his day. He wished that he'd taken his own medicine, ready to turn inside out with guilt, no idea how he was going to sleep. 

John softly hummed one of Sherlock's songs, the one for night terrors, and pulled a handful of Greg's shirt to his face so he could smell him as he went to sleep. 

After just a few minutes, the song grew scattered, he ceased humming, and drifted off into an exhausted sleep.

Greg brought his hands to his face after John fell off asleep and wept openly, needing to vent his anguish. He was only awake for another hour before finally fading down, exhausting himself enough that the grief and doubt no longer kept him awake. John was warm and heavier against him than he'd been a month ago, and the sun was properly down, the little birds outside asleep in their flower box. 

John awoke around four in the morning with a great start and a terrible hammering in his heart. It had been one of those dreams that so closely mirrored reality that even once he woke it clung to him. 

Sherlock had died, and Greg had left him in disgust. At the end of the dream, John had cried himself to sleep, which lent a considerable amount of confusion, as the logical next step, were the dream a reality, would be for him to wake up. 

John felt Greg's warmth and clung to him with renewed need and desperation. 

"Hey," Greg whispered, ever tuned to John even in his sleep. He'd felt John come awake and tightened his hold on him, "you're safe, home with me, everything is okay." He ran his fingers through John's hair and gently rubbed his back, "I've got you."

"You'd never leave me if I did something wrong, right? I know you won't...I just need to hear it." John tangled his legs up in Greg's and laid flush against his chest in order to get as much contact as possible. 

Greg frowned and locked his arms tight over John's back, dragging up his legs to tangle with John's, responding to his obvious need for more contact. He shifted them until John's back was to the sofa cushions at the back of the sofa, and he used most of his body to shield John from the world. 

"I won't leave you if you do something wrong, John," he assured, nerves churning in his gut. "I love you. I'm not leaving you." 

John felt much safer sandwiched between the back of the couch and Greg, and the effects of his comfort were instant. His shoulders relaxed and his eyes closed half-way again. 

"O-Okay," John leaned in and pressed a soft, sleepy kiss to Greg's lips before settling back down. "Thanks, love."

Greg smiled softly at John in the darkness. It was all hell, but at least he still had John's trust. He slid his fingers over John's hairline, trying to soothe him. "I have you," he whispered after some time, closing his eyes and slowly drifting back down into sleep. 

John tipped his forehead to rest against Greg and swiftly fell back asleep. 

It wasn't until morning that he woke again, this time peacefully, and decided that today simply had to be a better day. 

Greg woke up hungry and incredibly thirsty. He opened his eyes to find John awake. He gave him a swift, tight smile and then eased off the sofa, scrambling down the hall and ducking into the lav. While in there, he eyed the shower and decided that he had to give himself a few minutes. John knew how to click on the telly or some other such thing to keep himself occupied. Greg stripped himself down, cupped his hand under the tap and drank a bit of water, and then turned on the shower. 

He groaned and pressed his hand to the wall as the hot water hit his back, soothing and wonderful. It didn't take long for him to break down in the comfort, quietly sobbing into his hand, hidden under the sound of the shower. Even as he wept he washed himself, trimming up his beard and scrubbing his hair. Ten minutes later he was out, wrapping a towel around his hips before dashing out into the hall and into his room. He dressed swiftly and then made his way to the kitchen, red-rimmed eyes but mostly back together, setting to the now normal task of making John tea the way he liked it with a straw, and today, he'd offer two eggs. 

When he sat back down next to John with their food and two cuppas, he looked over at him, smiling tightly. 

"Three sugars, just like you like it."

John was becoming more accustomed to being in the room on his own. It helped that they weren't the strong, electronically locking doors at Mycroft's facility, and he could hear Greg wherever he went. John kept himself curled up under the blankets with his limbs curled up in the warm indentation on the sofa Greg had left.

With bleary eyes John stood and stretched to wake himself more fully. The day before had been...Frankly, it had been hell. Sherlock might be dying. John had failed. There was no way out. Lost in a sudden, oppressive despair, John wrapped the blanket around his shoulders and walked into the kitchen.

"Greg, can we have a happy day today?"

Greg sure as hell wanted that. When he'd gotten them back to the sitting with their tea and food, he clicked on the telly to black and white programming and sipped quietly at his tea, no idea how to provide John, who needed a proper washing more than anything, with a happy day. Any moment the phone could ring, and Sherlock could be dead, and it would all break apart. He had no solution, John would be here with him while Sherlock wasted away alone and _happy_ seemed sick and twisted. 

This felt like the days when he had John safe, but Sherlock was being tortured and they all knew it. 

"I'll do my best to keep you happy today," he answered at last, honestly meaning it, though he'd lost faith in his own abilities. 

John nodded and looked down at his plate. It seemed like an awful lot to eat, but he wasn't about to complain. 

"We'll have a happy day again sometime soon, won't we? It won't always be this, right?" 

John started with his routine of checking the tea's temperature, though he wasn't really paying attention. 

"Not today, I guess. We should work on things. That's more important. Should we work on Sherlock stuff?"

Greg shook his head. "You have to get clean. We've got to figure that out first. Then we can just...you know...with the tea and maybe we try a bit of milk today as well. Bit of ice cream. We don't need to do anything with Sherlock. His letter has been picked up, and he's still sedated. It won't...no, John, it won't always be like this. I'm so sorry. It won't always...I'm sorry."

John didn't like the idea of bathing, but knew it was necessary. 

"We started with a bowl and sponge back at the facility. Maybe we can use those. Or the wipes. Not rags. I don't like rags or showers or bathtubs. Bathtubs..." John shuddered and shook his head. 

"Let's try one of those two. We've hours and hours. If we get it over with now, we can move on."

Greg sucked in a sharp breath and looked to John, aching that John still did not trust him since the shower incident all that time ago. 

"I know I...I messed up months ago but...I wasn't going to ask you to even step in the lav. I was going to bring you a bowl and a sponge. I'm...I wouldn't ask you to-" he shook his head and ran his hand over his hair. 

"Let's finish breakfast and then we can tackle washing up, okay?"

Life was going by terribly slowly for John, who had to wrestle with himself just to eat. Moriarty lurked in the back corners of his mind and made random decisions about which days it would be difficult to eat on, and which it wouldn't. Luckily, the psychopath who had drilled himself a nice little home in John's mind was silent for the time being. 

"When we're done with everything, can we play cards?"

Greg nodded as he managed to get over himself enough to wrap an arm around John's back. He scooted close enough that they were flush together from ankle to hip to shoulder. 

"We can do whatever you like."   
John laid his head down on Greg's shoulder and sipped his tea through his straw. 

"We should start with the wipes just in case I panic during the other one. That way we can stop before I panic and we can still have a good day and I won't be afraid to try it again."

Greg nodded, pushing his mostly untouched food away, getting to his feet and walking to the bedroom in search of the large cleansing pads.

He returned with a change of pants, soft cotton trousers, socks and a shirt, setting them all down by John. He picked up his mobile and texted Mycroft again, asking after Sherlock.

John took a few bites of food and held Greg's hand when he got back. He was aware what he would look like without a shirt, and had no desire to see the JM carved into his flesh, or the gashes across his stomach or the burns on his legs. Slowly he pushed his plate away and pulled his shirt over his head, but he would not look at his body. 

Mycroft texted back immediately, as his phone had a loud ringer on it that went off only for the doctors and Greg. 

_Unconscious. They informed me yesterday that his heart is improving slightly, or at least, it isn't getting much worse._

Greg leaned over and pressed a slow, chaste kiss to John's shoulder, very gently running his fingers over John's back. He'd seen him nude many times, but it never failed to tug at his heart and make his stomach ache. 

"Can I wash your back for you? Just sitting here like this? I'll be very gentle, it might feel nice." 

He'd deal with the text soon enough, just glad that there was not a worsening condition. 

 

John looked at Greg in surprise when he kissed his scarred shoulder.

"I don't think you'll want to touch me. I haven't seen but..." _But I spent enough time at the whipping post to know I'm a mess._ John took the first wipe and started at his arms. "If you don't mind the scars, then yeah." 

Greg's blood ran cold in a sudden flash, horrified at John's meaning. He stilled John's hand, holding his wrist before sliding his fingers over John's back, tracing scar tissue long since memorized, though rarely with skin on skin contact. His fingertips were gentle as he followed the lines, touching John's scars the way he knew it to feel pleasant when he touched his own. 

"There is nothing about the way you look that makes me not want to touch you. Nothing. These are not...John this is evidence of what you survived, what you overcame. I...I know you don't see them the same, but to me, these are just physical reminders of your strength." 

John continued up and under his arms. "I'm sorry, I didn't know. I just think it's ugly." John flinched as he wiped over a scar under his arm that had been a particularly painful jab with a spike. 

"I know the whole mountain thing, but I can't help but feel small." He got a new wipe and continued on. The texture of his own skin was disgusting to him, but Greg's hands felt nice and helped calm him.

Greg collected several of the wipes and slowly began cleansing John's back, carefully going over each place at least twice, wanting John to feel clean. He pressed his thumb in gently at the muscles around the base of John's neck as he cleaned there, trying to soothe him as well. 

"I could give your hair a trim if you like, can use my clippers, no need for scissors. Might help you feel better, yeah? It's fine if you'd rather not." 

John kept his eyes ahead as he washed his chest. Not wanting to feel the puckered scars that marked him, he grabbed a handful of the wipes to add a few layers between his hateful skin and his sensitive hands. 

"I don't know. That might scare me. It might sound bad. I'll try it, but it might hurt."

Greg nodded and carried on with John's back. "That's fine, there is no rush. If you don't like the sound or the way it feels, we stop. I'll just do it on the highest setting so it won't take long and won't look that noticeable if we have to stop." 

When John's fingers trailed over Moriarty's hateful fucking initials, Greg leaned in and brushed his fingers over John's arm. 

"We..when you are feeling better, we will have those removed, okay? You won't wear that forever." 

John kept his eyes straight ahead. "Not even dogs are branded," he said quietly and his shoulders rolled in as he slouched. 

"I want it off. I hate it. I can't even look at it. I hate my own skin."

Greg nodded, loathing it as well. "Miller said he can do it here, you don't have to go to hospital. Whenever you want it done, you tell me, and he'll come take care of it. We didn't do it sooner because you were already in so much pain." 

He set the cloths down, done with John's back. "Want any more help, or for me to just sit here with you?"

John felt better now that he was clean and smelled faintly of the citrus on the wipes instead of sweat and fear, but he was still eager to be clothed again. "Sorry, let's just... This makes me nervous."

Greg eased back slowly, giving John his space. 

"You are fine, whatever you want to do. I'm going to clean up a bit, your clothes are there however and whenever you want them. If you want me to step out of the room for a moment, I will." 

He was calm and even for this, steady and glad that John was doing what he could to clean himself. Greg would facilitate that in any way he could. 

"Why don't I go get your meds, and you call me when you are ready for me to come back in." 

John waited for Greg to leave before slowly taking off his trousers and cleaning his legs off with the wipes. It was tedious, his legs were stiff, and bending over stretched the tight skin on his back. Taking off his trousers was a point of stress for him, but he needed to be clean.

When he was finished, he changed his clothing and threw the wipes away. "Greg? Can we please go look at the bird again?"

Greg called out from the bedroom. "Yeah, John, that's fine. can I come back out there? I've got your meds." He was leaning hard on the dresser, struggling with himself as he texted Mycroft back. 

_Made something of a breakthrough with John regarding Sherlock yesterday. I think I have a gameplan. I'm fairly sure it will eventually require me to abruptly leave, but not until they are more situated._

 

John took the wipes from the table and tossed them into the bin. "Yeah, I'm dressed. The birds are out. Can we feed them again?"

_Abruptly leaving? That sounds a bit risky, don't you think? John might panic. We need someone of sane mind to keep them afloat if they both start to go down._

Greg shook his head at his phone, dragging a hand over his face. "Be right there, John, and we will go feed them." 

His fingers were lightly trembling as he responded. 

_It's still months down the road, likely, but I think for it to return to the way they were, I'll have to remove myself._

John swung his feet off the edge of the couch and eventually stood. He was stronger physically and therefore capable of much more activity in the day than he was previously. He walked to the window and watched the birds hop around before spotting the one he had fed the day before. "I see the brown one," he called to Greg. 

_If you think it is for the best, I'll support you. Try not to dwell on it for now. You'll make yourself sick._

Greg closed his eyes and slid his phone into his pocket, nodding to himself. 

"Okay, John," he said quietly, making sure he had all the day's medication for him. He walked back out and looked John over, glad they'd bathed him a bit, though his hair still wanted trimming and washing. He stood beside John and held his hand out. "Blue ones are optional," he said gently, taking a quiet moment to admire how...how _peaceful_ John looked when watching the little things. 

John reached behind and took his myriad of usual medications, though he left the blue ones. It was such a safe place, inside the comfort and hazy insulation the blue pill provided, but he wanted to be clear today. 

"Thanks, love. Can we go outside now? I'll get the bread."

Greg looked up in surprise, not having expected John to go after the bread. He slid his hands in his pockets, leaving the pills there, and waited for John to come back. There were several more birds out, and on a last second thought Greg turned around and went for the kitchen as well, grabbing himself a beer in hopes that it would soothe his scrambled nerves. 

"Ready?"

John entered the kitchen with caution and got the bread without touching anything else. He noticed that the knife block was missing. Probably in some drawer.

He returned with the bread under his arm and stood by the door like an excited puppy, waiting to be let out. 

"Ready. I bet I can get it into my hand quicker this time."

They moved outside slowly as Greg didn't want to scatter the birds, taking up their places on the bench once again. John's enthusiasm put an honest smile on Greg's face and he shifted on the seat to watch John work his magic with the little things while he nursed at his beer. It was overcast, but it didn't matter. The air was warm and breezy, and the hint of ozone suggested rain later. 

John picked the bird out from the others by waiting until it was closest and tossing it bread, while scattering a larger handful for the others. It was a bit tedious, but eventually he separated it from the group and had it hopping closer. The progress with the little bird was swifter, though by no means did they pick up where they left off. 

"Do you think he'll have a nest?"

Greg nodded, "I'm sure of it. They always do and he's still here, so likely a little nest about." He watched the little birds all hopping about, but John had picked his, and he seemed dead set on keeping with it. It was...good to see him focused like this. 

"My kids used to like to sit out here with them." And where the hell that came from, he had no idea. John didn't need to hear about his ex-family. Ex. Wasn't that a thing to say of it. Christ. 

He cleared his throat and looked up at the sky, suddenly deeply missing the sound of his children wrecking his home, laughing and running about. But that was gone now. He had John for a time, but really, it was the last bit of sand falling through the glass. 

"Maybe they can come visit," John said as if it were nothing at all. Frankly, he couldn't see why anyone would leave Greg. The man was infallible to him, a rock and a mountain that he could seek shelter with. To know that someone had willingly left him was baffling. 

"I won't panic. I'll go into the room if you want. I'd like to see them."

Greg smiled sadly at the sky, keeping his face towards the clouds as he answered quietly. 

"John, I love you mate, I really do, but my kids always come first. If I could have them visit, I would have by now. Not in England any longer, mucking about in America with her and her new job and her new boyfriend. They're not even taking calls. She took off before the divorce was final. I'm fucked. Can't do much about it with them out of the country." 

He lost a bit of composure talking about them, chin dipping and voice breaking somewhat. He'd been away from home, and wrong as it had been it had been easier to put it out of his mind like that. But here, where he'd built a home, brought his youngest home to...it was catching up. Combined with his exponential failures with John and Sherlock, he was rapidly losing steam. 

John gave his bird another look before making a little crumb trail it could follow if it wanted and turning to Greg. He brushed the man's cheek with his fingertips and trailed them back through his hair. 

"It wasn't fair what she did. You didn't deserve that. I'm sure you'll see your kids again. You must have been a wonderful father. You're a loving man, kind, caring, and loyal. I know they loved you. I know I can't do much to help you, but if you ever need to talk about it, I'm here." 

The last sentence was very similar to what John had said in an attempt to console Greg when the divorce was still fresh. 

Greg closed his eyes, always taken by the moments that John tried to help him. "Thanks, mate," he whispered softly, honestly meaning it. He'd called John the night she'd packed his bags for him and shown him to the door, and Greg and Sherlock had made him a place on the sofa, and John had sat with him while he got pissed and put a blanket over him when he finally blacked out. 

"I'd have been...Christ, I don't even know where, if I hadn't been able to come to you. You've always been a wonderful friend, I've always been so lucky to know you.

John was grateful he had helped and began to smile. "Greg, we're friends. That's what friends do. You're a wonderful person, and I'm lucky I know you. I know exactly where I'd be if you hadn't been there for me. I'd be in a mental institution."

John rested his head on Greg's shoulder. "You're a marvel of a man. I love you."

While Greg greatly disagreed with that, he smiled anyhow and just tried to settle into the feel of John against his shoulder, deeply wishing these were different circumstances. 

"That little guy likes you," he whispered of the bird now hopping up on the top of John's foot, eager for more bread. Greg smiled at that, finding it quite endearing. 

John giggled and looked down at his foot. He took a chunk of bread and held it between two fingers. Instead of trying to feed it to the bird by hand, he got about halfway down and simply dropped it. 

"I don't want to stress it."

Greg nodded, fully understanding that. "It's terrible to stress something you love," he whispered back, deeply regretting his failure to better protect John. He drew in deep, slow breath and ran a hand over his neck before pressing a kiss to John's temple. 

John's heart warmed when Greg kissed him, as it always did, and he moved his hand down just a few more inches. The bird hopped away, but was easily coaxed back with a piece of bread crust. 

"Well, I wouldn't say I love the bird, but I agree with what you're saying."

Greg couldn't help but laugh quietly at that. John had always had a fantastic and severely underrated dry wit and Greg had always loved it. He brought the beer back to his lips, sipping happily at it while John fussed with his bird. It was as calm as life got for them and Greg was trying very hard to just enjoy it, instead of falling apart as he'd done the day before. 

John spent the next forty-five minutes coaxing the bird onto his hand. It was tedious work with numerous setbacks, but John was persistent and eventually the little bird was on his hand, which was being moved at a snail's rate up back towards John. 

"Look," he breathed, and dropped another piece of bread to distract it while he drew his hand in again.

If only little chunks of bread would calm John like that. Greg watched in wonder as John managed it again, reaching slowly into his pocket for his mobile. 

"Can I take a picture?" He'd managed to get the others in without John's knowledge, but here John would see him, "that's really amazing, John."

John nodded to the picture, but silent as he worked. He held a piece of bread between his fingertips and slowly extended it to the bird, who stretched forward and took it warily. 

John could see that it was the end of the day for the bird, and he spoke softly to Greg. "He's getting uncomfortable. I'm going to let him go before he gets scared and flies away."

Greg set the mobile down after nabbing the shot and kept his focus on John's face. Again something about the way John was with the bird twinged in his chest and set guilt churning in his gut. He watched John's expressions, wondering if there was a way he could do this with John and water. John would drink tea, and they would soon enough have him on other liquids, but he had to get used to wet cloths and dripping water and eventually the tub, and how could he breadcrumb John to those things? 

Greg's tasks stood in front of him like a massive, impassable mountain and he staggered for a moment at the sheer enormity of it all. Most of all Greg wanted the goddamn feeding tube out of John, wanted him to eat and drink, but all these things were priorities and they could not be done one at a time. 

John showed the bird a piece of bread. Once he had the bird's eye, which he recognized by a slight tilt of it's head, John tossed the crumb onto the ground a few feet away from him. The bird happily followed, and John tossed a crumpled up slice to the birds around the feeder whom his bird had joined.

Helping the bird over it's fear, or rather, training it to associate him with food, was proving rather cathartic for John. "I like these birds," he remarked and leaned back against Greg's shoulder.

Greg wrapped his arm around John, turning his head and tipping his lips down to John's crown. 

"They like you too," he said quietly, closing his eyes and breathing in deep. He'd not struggled so hard since John had believed he'd...Greg forced the thought away, not wanting it in his head. John was making progress, and he knew he should focus on that. 

"You're doing incredible, John."

John stood slowly and took Greg's hand. The man simply wasn't feeling well, and while John couldn't tell exactly why, he could offer some help. John pulled Greg into the bedroom and laid down in his usual place. 

"Come here, love. Let's relax for a few minutes."

Greg allowed John to pull him asking, surprised with his actions, leaving the little birds hoping about. He was quiet as John pulled him through the sitting and show the hall, and watched in silence as he got into bed.when John bid him to come lay down, he did as he was asked, crawling up and wrapping John in his arms, tucking his face against John's neck and breathing in deep to steady himself.

John held Greg's head to his shoulder and ran his fingers through his hair. "It's alright, love. It's alright. I'm here for you. Everything is alright now. You've done wonderfully. You saved my life. I love you. Someday, Sherlock and I will both be alright, and the three of us can go for beers. We'll be happy."

Greg closed his eyes and made the internal dialog in his head shut the hell up, putting John's voice in his ears instead. He shivered slightly at the feel of John's fingers in his hair, exhaling slowly in an effort to relax as he edged closer, draping his arm over John's hip and attempting to settle himself. John's words were a balm over his flayed nerves, helping to calm him down slightly. 

Typically he could separate the parts of his life where he was failing and look at them individually, but as the months with John in his care slowly came together, he was losing that ability, and at present was wrapped up in a terrible ball of cloying failure, pressed in with crushing responsibility. 

John pressed a kiss to Greg's forehead and lingered there. "I'm sorry, love. I'm sorry. I've got you. I'm here for you. If you need anything, I'm here. Look how far we've come, Greg. I'm at home. There are no doctors. I'm not strapped down and I'm calm. I owe that to you."

Greg nodded and pulled John tighter to him. "It's not you, John, you've done nothing wrong. I'm...I'll be okay. I...I'm okay just...just struggling a bit but I'll be okay. I'm being an idiot." 

He kept his head down on John's shoulder though, once again closing his eyes and trying to think of what _John_ would tell him. He could no longer go to Mycroft for help, nor could he go to Mycroft for help anymore. Mycroft had far too much weighing on him. So he closed his eyes, breathed deep, and forced himself to think back to the sort of guidance he'd get from John. 

When several minutes of mental silence passed, his mind failing to provide him with the wisdom John was likely to, Greg failed to hold back silent tears as they rolled slowly down his face, leaving him feeling isolated and alone. 

John didn't know what was going on in Greg's mind and he had no way of understanding how responsible he felt. John only knew that his Greg was hurting, and he would do anything in his power to help. 

"I love you. I love you. You aren't an idiot. You are always putting the good of others before your own. You always help me no matter what. It's like the drawing. I didn't see myself the way you drew me. And just like it, you don't see what I see in you. You..." 

John leaned back a bit so he could see Greg's face. Never was there a more beautiful human being on the face of the earth that Greg Lestrade through the eyes of John Watson. 

"You're wonderful. I know you don't see it, but I do."

Greg steeped in his own hatred of himself, despising that he was being like this. John smiled at him with such affection and it was killing him. He'd pitched John into a shaking, screaming, begging-to-die mess more times than he could count, and his beautiful, empathetic, patient John had taken the pain Greg had subjected him to and used it to know what not to do with his little bird. 

Greg had made John understand pain in an entirely new way, and oh _god_ did it hurt to know that. 

"I..." he dashed a hand across his face, hating that he was being so weak in front of the man who counted on his strength, "I just feel like I...I am constantly hurting you, always scaring you, pushing you too hard and making...making you fly away. I..." he shook his head, dragging in a long breath, willing himself to calm down. Perhaps a long, proper cry in the shower would help? He coughed and cleared his throat, holding a hand over his eyes. 

"I'm sorry, I...you're doing wonderfully and I'm so proud of you, I am so angry with myself." 

John thought back to the bird and his heart sank. 

"That's why it made you sad, isn't it? Greg, occasionally I react badly to something you do, but it's never your fault. Everything you do, you do out of love. There's no malice in it. Like with the shower, I understand now that you thought it would help. You found out it didn't, and have avoided it since. You can't read my mind. You don't have all the answers and I don't expect you to. What I depend on from you is something you easily give to me. You love me. I need that. I'm not ashamed to admit that I need to be held and loved. It helps me more than you know. I just..." John exhaled slowly and put his chin on top of Greg's head. 

"I know you're hard on yourself. But please, take it from me and believe that you are wonderful."

Greg nodded, taking a few rapid breaths, one after the other to keep himself from breaking down in the wake of forgiveness he felt selfish to take. He swallowed hard and whispered a quiet 

"Thank you," listening to John's heart beating, taking great comfort in that. He kept tucked in against John, closing his eyes again and resting there. 

"I don't know where you find it in you to put up with this, I..." _shut the fuck up, Greg._

He inhaled deeply again, starting to debate getting up and having a beer, or perhaps halving one of John's pills and taking it himself. Jesus, his _nerves_. John's words were deeply reassuring, it helped to know that on some level at least, John might look back on this when he was healthy and remember that Greg had done it all out of love, even when he was a phenomenal fuckup. 

John tried to be as soothing as he possibly could. No matter who it was, or what condition John was in, he had always stepped up to help his friends when they needed him. If he was in pain and in a mental institution, he'd try and walk out of the place himself to try and get to a suicidal best friend. When he felt lower than a dog and was terrified over the possible loss of his friend, he still stepped up to comfort someone else. 

"Greg, I don't put up with you. I cherish every second. I love you more than you know. I'd be lost without you. I'd be a mess! You can do so much good here with me, and you already have. I enjoyed tea today and fed birds. If you had known that months ago, would you have called it a failure at the time?" 

Greg shook his head. "No. You've come so far, so fast. You are not a failure," he replied, finally looking up at John, needing him to know that Greg did not see him as a failure.

"You have overcome so much already! So, so much already. I'm always amazed with your progress. You...you're incredible, John."   
He swallowed hard and looked back down. 

"I...I hate pushing you. I want to keep you in this safe, warm bubble and keep everything that scares you away, but doing that robs you of a life I know you can have. So...so I have to push you, and...and part of that is with...I mean he's...John he was in agony when you were in hospital and he couldn't- I feel like I've stolen you away, like I'm...I know you love me, but it's not...you didn't ever love me before. You and he...and how am I going to face him if he lives, and how will I live with myself if he dies thinking-" 

Oh, but this was _not_ okay to be telling John. "I'm sorry, nevermind. This...I'm being foolish." 

John desperately needed Greg to stay with him and be alright. That was what he needed. There was nothing in his mind even nearly as important. John cupped Greg's face and tilted it back up to look at him. Where was he to start? 

"First off, if I'm not a failure than neither are you. You and I are linked. If I'm doing well, than so are you. Second, I know you hate pushing me, and I thank you for doing so despite how you feel so I can get better. It's so much easier to just exist now that I'm not as afraid of things. You've been a blessing. Lastly...about Sherlock..." 

John closed his eyes and tipped his head forward to Greg's. 

"Yeah, you're right. You and I weren't this close before. But that does not invalidate what we have now."

Every single mark and burn, brand and break that Sherlock wore on his body was _for John_. Greg had held John's hand and helped him through the aftermath, but Sherlock...Sherlock had walked right into the lion's den and laid his body down to keep John's from further harm. 

Greg had lost nothing, only gained everything from all of this, where Sherlock...what was left for him in the end? He'd seen the pain on Sherlock's face when John had turned to Greg to hide himself from him. Sherlock already knew exactly where he stood. If John felt worthless and small, even in Greg's arms, it must have been a relief for Sherlock to drag that blade across his throat in hopes of dying. 

He sighed and nodded. It might not invalidate what they had, but it didn't make Greg's feelings towards John any less wrong. 

"I...you're right. Hearing about him...I'd had to put him out of my mind to take care of us, I just...at Mycroft's we were at least all together in an odd sense. I feel like I'm leaving a man behind and mishandling you. I should push you harder but at the same time I should stop pushing you, and I love you but I shouldn't, and I...I..." he licked his lip and exhaled a wavering breath, "I'm sorry, John, I'll be fine. I'm just a bit low at the moment but I'll be fine."

John's voice sounded broken, small and utterly devastated.

"Shouldn't love me?" 

He let out a sudden sob and clutched his Greg as pain, fear and panic swelled in him. 

"Greg, no! Greg, please, _please_ , I'm-" Tears sprang to his eyes and he very abruptly began to cry, even as he logically knew that Greg wouldn't leave him. He simply wouldn't.

"Sorry, I'm sorry." 

John shut his eyes and willed himself to be calm. 

"That's not what you meant. I know that. I know that. I know that. I know that." John exhaled slowly and shuddered. Greg's love was the main thing that kept him going. He _lived_ for it. Sure, he would _endure_ for Sherlock's sake, but he only _lived_ for Greg's love.   
"Greg, please, I'm-" John began to tremble and felt himself start to come undone at the very idea that he might lose Greg's love, even if that wasn't what the man had implied. 

Greg swore and moved immediately. Jesus Christ what had he been _thinking_? He sat up and pulled John into his arms, wrapping him up as he moved John into his lap, his own back against the headboard, knees drawn up to cradle John to him, arms tight around John. 

"I love you, John. I love you. I- that's not what- I meant it in that I shouldn't- god I'm sorry, John, oh I'm sorry. I love you, I love you more than I could say and I'm- fucking hell I'm an idiot, oh, John I'm sorry," he tipped his face down, resting his forehead just above John's at his hairline, gritting his teeth as he began to rock them both. 

"Oh god, I don't know what I was thinking, I'm so sorry. I love you, I'm not going to stop, I _can't_ stop and I don't want to. I- I just got- John please, I'm- no that's not- I didn't mean-" 

He shook his head as tears rolled down his own cheeks, dripping down in John's hair, as self-loathing drove a spike through his heart and kept itself there, deeply painful each time the damn thing beat. He was an incurable idiot. He clutched at John, feeling him tremble in his arms. 

This is what he did. 

This. 

Right here. 

This was what Greg did. John made progress _despite_ Greg, not because of him. 

"I...I love you...I love you John I- you deserve love and you're worth love and I'm...I'm sorry that's not what...I didn't mean...oh, John I'm so damn sorry, I'm so sorry." 

 

John wept and held on to Greg as if someone were actively trying to rip him away. His eyes were wide open and he stared at Greg pleadingly. 

"Y-You should love me. I'll d-do better. I'll do better. I swear it, Greg, I'll-" John grit his teeth and cried out loudly in agony, allowing himself to consider what it would be like if Greg left. He could see it in his mind's eye; the man simply walking away in disgust, perhaps because of John's scars or his stupid fears. Another picture presented itself, where John was shut out of Greg's home, crying on the doorstep and begging to be let back in. 

But that wasn't what was happening. John wasn't being left out to die. He desperately tried to focus on Greg's words and his eyes squeezed shut. 

"Y-You said- Y-You shouldn-n't l-l-l-love m-me," John cried with a voice so full of despair it cut his throat on the way out. 

"Please, I-I-I d-don't unders-stan-nd!"

Greg was going to be sick. He reached down, grabbing the blankets and pulling them up over them both in a pathetic bid to try and make John feel better protected. His chest was buckling, again and again in his desperate effort to keep himself from falling apart.

With his words failing to reach John and tears keeping him from trying to speak further, Greg simply leaned down and pressed his saline-slick lips to John's, lingering there for long seconds, trying to physically convey to John that he loved him. 

He drew back slowly, hardly able to focus on John through the blur of his vision. 

"I'm sorry, I messed up again. I...I..." he shook his head, his breath catching hard on a sob. What they fucking hell use was it anyhow? 

"I meant that it's horrifically s-selfish of me to love you. That's what I meant." 

John felt Greg's lips on his and the tension slowly bled from him. He continued to cry in grief and fear, but his hold on Greg changed from that of desperation to that of a loved one seeking affection. John buried his face in Greg's neck once he pulled away and slowly his shuddering subsided.

Selfish? 

John shook his head. 

"No, Greg, n-not selfish. It's- you h-help m-me. I need y-you to l-love me." 

Had he been more aware, or heard himself before the incident, he might have been disgusted or ashamed at how incredibly needy he sounded. But as it was, he did need Greg, and terror of losing him easily broke his already shattered pride. 

"How? H-how is it s-sel-lfish for y-you to love m-me?"

Greg dragged his face across his own shoulders as he sniffed hard, breath catching and stuttering in his chest. He didn't want to fucking talk anymore, didn't want to say a single word further to the terrified man in his arms. He wasn't responsible enough for this. He'd had a rare moment with _John_ and then blown it right out of the water, let his guard down too far, spoke too freely. He held John as he choked on his own grief. There was no point in trying to explain. He went with short and to the point, hoping he'd stop fucking saying stupid shit to John that would upset him further.

"I love you. I'm sorry." His voice was wrecked and his stomach debating tossing up then and there. He could not stop the constant flow of tears, so he quit trying. 

John didn't understand what he had done wrong. Why was Greg saying he shouldn't love him? Was it because he was weak? Because of his scars? Because he'd never have a completely normal life? Whatever the reason, John was deeply sorry for it and willing to change. He pressed his ear against Greg's chest and listened to his heartbeat from his place in Greg's lap. 

"Please, I don't understand. If you t-tell me, I c-can help. I c-can do better. You h-have to tell me." John resolved that tomorrow he would eat eggs and bread and ice cream and anything else Greg asked. He'd drink tea and water and anything, _anything_ to get Greg to love him. 

"I d-don't know what's wrong!" It was clear from his tone that the lack of understanding was what was causing him the most pain. 

Greg's heart crumbled in on itself as gooseflesh bloomed across his body, and he gathered John as close to himself as possible as the wall of grief he'd been desperately holding up tumbled down on him, burying him under its crushing weight. He fell into broken sobbing, unable to keep himself together a moment longer. 

"I- I'm so s-sorry," he choked out, gripping John desperately to him. It took him many long minutes before he could speak again, so overcome with it. 

"It's n-not you John, god it's not you! I-" he grit his teeth and shook his head, caught in a trap of his own making. Bringing up Sherlock when John was like this was _always_ a mistake. 

"I'm h-hurting someone else by...by f-feeling like this towards you and- I- it's-" again he broke, his stomach twisted up so severely his mouth watered, "I do love you. I love you. I'm s-so sorry." 

 

 

Understanding hit John all at once and he breathed a small gasp. 

"Oh, I see. It's about him, isn't it? Y-you're worried Sherlock w-would be upset? Hurt?" 

John's awareness suddenly turned inward. If Sherlock had been so hurt so suddenly when John checked out a woman at the pub, how would he feel knowing that John was so deeply attached to someone? 

"B-but he- I-I was married!" 

Surely if Sherlock could handle John sleeping with a wife, he could handle this. After all, this was Greg. He wasn't having sex with Greg. If anything, it should hurt him less than Mary had. Or, at least, that was John's rational. 

"I d-don't want to hurt Sherlock. I will not hurt Sherlock. But I-I can't l-live without this."

Greg just nodded. He knew John didn't care, and that wasn't his fault. But no, it would gut Sherlock to know the extent that John and Greg felt for one another, and there was not getting around it. If he was anything like John, it may very well be what pushed Sherlock past his ability to cope. John was going to hurt Sherlock. He was, and had, and would continue to. And now Greg would as well, there was no way to get around it. If Sherlock was going to be exposed to them, he'd see _this_. 

"N-No one wants you to live without love, John," he whispered honestly. That, at least, was a pure truth. 

John whimpered. This was too much. Was he hurting Sherlock simply by loving Greg? Was everything he did hurting Sherlock? 

_I will not hurt Sherlock. I will not hurt Sherlock. I will not-_

_Oh, honey, yes you will._

John flinched hard and held Greg as tightly as his weak limbs could manage. "I'm h-hurting him just by being comfortable! I need y-you! But...when he comes, w-will you stop h-holding me? Will I lose this?" 

John's face was a visage of utter horror and he started trembling once more. 

"No. No, John I won't stop, no," and that too was a pure truth. Ugly as it was, when it came down to Sherlock or John, Greg always chose John. He'd always choose John. 

"I need you too. I know you don't see that, but god, John, I need you too." 

He had no idea how they were going to do this, how Sherlock would survive it, how it would come together, but it would. It...it had to. 

"Maybe...maybe when you f-feel...better, around him...maybe I can hold you both. He's...John he hasn't said anything. He's seen me hold you. He's seen you turn to me when you are scared. He already knows, and he's never once even hinted that he was upset. I'm...this is just me worrying. I'm- I'm just being stupid. This isn't...god I'm so fucking sorry, John. You are okay, I'm not going to just suddenly stop what we are doing." 

John bit down on the inside of his cheek where there was a protruding scar and took comfort, as if it were penance, in the taste of copper.   
"So then...what it comes down to..." John shut his eyes and kept a steady rhythm. "When Sherlock c-comes back, either I hurt him, or I hurt you and myself. There's n-no way around it, is there?"

A lovely fate, truly. Either he was to knowingly cause someone he loved great pain, or he would hurt someone else he loved and lose the one thing that made his life worth living. 

"I don't know what t-to do."

Indeed those seemed the options. Greg drew John in closer and closed his eyes. 

"Things have looked bleak before, and we've made it. You don't know how you'll feel about him later, once we get Moriarty out of your head. Sherlock, John he already accepted that he's lost you I just- I'm sorry this is- I said too much and it's- we don't even know if he's going to survive. It's too soon to be...it's too soon to-" he drew in a deep breath and tried to quiet himself. 

"He loves you. He's always loved you enough to let you be happy with who makes you happy. I can't see that changing. He'd never ask you to leave me, not ever." 

John closed his eyes and tried to accept that someone would be hurt either way. He couldn't decide which. At the moment, John could not fathom losing the affection from Greg that meant everything to him. But the old mantra, _I will not hurt Sherlock_ , was rooted into his mind far deeper than any of his learned fears. 

"I don't know how we'll do this. I don't want to hurt Sherlock, and I can't live without this. I love him, and I know I'm a horrible person not to go to him for what he did. He was tortured. I can't...I should repay him, but everytime I try, he gets upset because it hurts me. I'm stuck."

Greg shook his head, "He will simply have to endure. If you are willing to try with him, he will have to endure, or else choose to leave. I cannot imagine him choosing to leave. You can only best you can do, yeah? That's all I can do, all he can do. You both are just...I mean, it will hurt, but you both will get through it and then it won't hurt, and then, after it stops hurting, it will be fun and good again. You both will be alright. He's...you've got to remember how fresh from this he is, he won't always be so reactionary, John, he won't."

"He'll endure me. That will hurt. That will hurt badly. He's going to be hurt by my actions even though I'm powerless to stop it. That's okay. He'll endure, and then he'll be happy. I'll desensitize myself to him even though it hurts him because then I can help him. It doesn't matter if I told myself I won't hurt Sherlock, if I end up helping him in the long run." 

John curled up into a tight ball. 

"I don't like this."

Greg nodded, "I know you don't like it. I don't like it either. It's...it's very hard to hurt someone that you love. But...really in the long run it will be the best thing for you and Sherlock. it will."

John closed his eyes and nuzzled down on Greg's neck. "And what about you, love? What is best for you?"

Greg drew in a deep breath, looking down at John and chewing the inside of his lip. 

"For...for the people I love most to be okay. That's what's best for me."   
He wrapped an arm around John and drew him in closer, dashing a hand across his face again as he tried to calm down. 

"It's...it's all going to sort out, it will. It...I mean, his living here is a long way off, we have time to get you more comfortable and it won't be so hard."

John shook his head and sat up a bit to look at Greg. "You matter. Remember that, okay? Remember that you matter. I love you. I want what is best for you. If you ever find out a way for me to do what is best for you and still help Sherlock, let me know."

Greg smiled at John and nodded, whispering his thanks. He ran his hands over his face again and inhaled deeply, closing his eyes again and leaning in to press a kiss to John's temple. "I'm sorry I hurt you," he breathed, eyes burning, "I...I say some really stupid shit sometimes. It's not fair that it always hurts you. I...I'm sorry. You wanted a good day and I...I'm sorry." 

He slid his fingers across John's cheek, clearing away some of the tears Greg put there. 

"I'm always hurting you. I don't mean to be." 

John kept his eyes on Greg and looked at him with both sadness and adoration. 

"You aren't always hurting me. You know how not to hurt me. You know exactly what to do for me. You know what words I don't like, and you know how to help me sleep. Greg...I don't think you understand."

Greg shook his head and leaned back, keeping John safely cradled in his arms. 

"I keep...I keep making you so sad. I-" his words caught in his throat as his chin dipped. How the _hell_ could he still feel like crying after all of that mess? He took one hand away from John, bringing it to his eyes and pulling in a wavering breath. 

"You were just trying to help me and I- look what I did...I..." his jaw clamped shut and he grit his teeth, sniffing hard and looking away, feeling like a complete idiot. 

"Sorry, I'm sorry."

John shook his head almost vigorously. 

"Listen to me. Listen right now." 

He took Greg's face in his hands and kept his eyes locked. 

"Yes, you occasionally hurt me. I won't deny that. But you never mean to, there's never malice, and you always help me more than you hurt. Friends make mistakes. That's what happens. You are human! I understand that you are sad, but I can't help but think you don't understand how much I care about you."

Greg kept himself quiet as John spoke, afraid to say anything else that would screw up the day. He bit his lip and leaned into John's hands, closing his eyes for a moment. 

"I know you love me."

John gently brushed his fingers over Greg's cheek and kept his eyes on Greg's. "I love you, but that isn't just it. I admire you for your strength. How you held on while I was still in restraints, I have no idea."

Greg leaned into John's fingers, reaching up and taking John's hand, pressing a kiss to his palm and holding John's hand to his lips. Greg hadn't been so exhausted when John was in restraints, so drained down to nothing. 

"It was just hard seeing how much pain you were in. I don't know how you made it from there, you...I can't believe you admire _my_ strength, it's yours that's the marvel." 

John shook his head, but decided to leave it without arguing. "It's going to be alright. We'll figure it out. In the end, we'll have it all figured out. Just because we can't see it now, doesn't mean we won't get it sorted. Sherlock was happy enough when we were together when I was married. He'll be fine with me having a friend I need to feel safe."

It shouldn't hurt to hear John refer to him that way. It shouldn't. But oh, it did, and that decidedly meant something was wrong with him down at his core. He was John's friend, just his friend, that was it, and John...John needed him like a lame man needs a crutch, and that was okay. At least someone needed him. 

He was not...no one stayed just because he was Greg. When he stopped being whatever his wife wanted, she left, and when John was strong and back to himself, he would too, and that was as it should be. He had no right to feel his own heart twisting. He really, really didn't. 

"He will be...he will be." 

"Okay, thank you. Thank you. You're the best, love." John took a moment to himself then. If he affectionately called Greg his love, but then called him his best friend in conversation. John utterly refused to consider that there might be more complication in his life than there already was, and thus decided not to think about it too much. 

"He's a good person, but so are you. I don't want to have to choose who I help and who I hurt."

Greg shook his head and kept John's hand close to his lips. "You don't have to. That's nothing that I will ask, or Sherlock would ask. Nothing that has happened is your fault, so it's ultimately not _you_ hurting anyone, okay? It's not you. This is just a hard situation. You've not done anything, okay? No one is asking you to choose. No one ever will." 

All truths that Greg was determined to be true. If it began to come to that, he would provide a solution. 

John very much wanted that to be true, but knew he would likely be faced with such situations anyway, even if nobody asked him to choose. "Can we get some sleep? I know it's not late yet, but I'm tired. I need to sleep. Can we just lie down and sleep?'

Greg nodded and very gently untangled himself from John, easing him down into the bed. "Yeah, of course," he whispered, keeping the blanket around John's shoulders and moving himself away so that John could get comfortable. He was miserable and lower than he'd been in a very long time. John was sad because Greg had made him sad, Sherlock was alone in hospital, Mycroft was on edge, and his family was gone. It was a mess of epic proportions. 

He opened his mouth to apologize again, snapping his jaw shut before he made a sound. He'd said what could be said. Instead, he simply asked on a quiet whisper, "Can...can I still hold you?"

John curled up in the bed, but didn't quite rest his head until Greg asked to hold him. His face lit up in such a way that made it clear how much he appreciated the invitation. With a happy hum, he pulled Greg down next to him and settled his head on his chest. 

"Course you can. You always can. This always helps me." His mind was still a chaotic mess, and he was quite certain he would cry himself to sleep, but the comfort Greg offered would never be in vain. 

Greg closed his eyes and wrapped one hand around John's back, sinking the other in John's hair and rubbing lightly at his scalp. He held John tight, wanting to fix what he had done and finding himself unable to. 

At least he could do this. 

He made sure they were both comfortable and then went still save for his fingers in John's hair, trying to quiet his mind. 

John slowly began to cry into Greg's chest as the weight of his decisions and failures crashed on to him. He was being horribly stupid and selfish. Sherlock was...Fuck, Sherlock might be dying! And what was he doing? Cuddling with his best friend who he called love? John sobbed quietly and grabbed onto Greg's shirt. 

Greg clung to John as the man cried, feeling lower than low. 

John had gotten the bird on his hand today, and Greg may as well have stomped it with his boot and crushed it. He felt as though he'd robbed John of all his little, and by little, he meant _massive_ , victories and could do nothing more but lay there, stare at the ceiling, and listen to John cry. 

He carried on sliding his fingers through John's hair, gently rubbing John's back, silent tears sliding down his own cheeks as he listened to the sound of John's heartbreak. 

Each time John was close to being calm, an image of Sherlock lying in his room, weeping, while John was in bed with Greg, surfaced into his mind and fresh tears would start again. He wept quietly, pitifully, with no hope of his ails being healed or his problems sorted. He didn't cry for want of attention, or for pain or fear, simply grief at what he knew he was going to have to face. 

Because he had to face it. At this point, he couldn't just leave. 

After nearly an hour, John's hitching breath slowed and he dropped off to sleep.

Greg was in a numb sort of hell by the time John finally quieted. Resolved never to tell John what was going on in his head for the rest of his life, never ever again, he lay there quietly and stared at the ceiling, listening to John's breathing stutter even in sleep from all of his crying. 

He had done that, just because he'd been too weak to accept that he had to face this for the long haul on his own. There would be no comfort or help. It was just him, desperately trying to save Sherlock and John from the terror they'd be subjected to. 

He fell asleep determined to back off and shut the fuck up. John wasn't his friend anymore, John was someone who needed him to be a rock. He was going to have to be until...until.   
John whimpered even in his sleep when he occasionally stirred to cry out, clutch Greg, and settle back down again. His dreams were stressful flashes of negative images and disturbing sounds that failed to rouse him but succeeded in upsetting him. 

At one point, when he had reached almost half the night without any serious nightmares, he woke for nearly no reason and sat up out of Greg's arms. 

Greg was exhausted by the time John sat up. He'd been awake most of the night with John so restless, always attuned to him even while trying to sleep. When John pulled away from him, he sat up as well, clearing his throat as his heart locked up and dread settled over his shoulders. 

"John?"

John abruptly turned and got up out of bed, silent, and headed for the door. He didn't give a word of explanation as he tossed the covers back and opened the door without any visible expression on his face. 

"John?" 

Greg got up, heart hammering in his ears, and followed John at a bit of a distance. He wasn't' quite sure if the man was sleepwalking or not. 

John pointedly ignored Greg. He didn't want to cause any more suffering. He simply would not hurt anyone else. If that meant he needed to hide from them to properly break down, he would. John didn't hear Greg follow, and he unlocked the door to the patio. 

Greg's heart leapt into his throat as he followed, keeping back to give John the freedom of movement. Maybe he was after his bird? He was close enough that he could stop anything dangerous from happening, but far enough away not to be massively intrusive.

John looked around for a moment before finding the key so he could lock the door from the outside. 

He wasn't going to hurt anyone else. 

If that meant he needed to be alone and comfort himself while Greg was safe, he would. John stepped outside the door and locked it behind him swiftly before turning entirely away and sitting calmly down on the bench. 

Greg was in a pure panic as the bolt clicked shut. He'd always intended to have that absurd lock removed and never used it, and yet John...he was sitting calmly on the bench and at the moment it seemed okay, but oh god what if...they were three floors up, it wouldn't kill him but it would _break him_ and he- Jesus. 

He raked his hands through his hair and watched, pulling at the strands between his fingers. 

John was very orderly as he set the key on the little table where he wouldn't lose it, then sat back on the little bench. He sat up straight, hands on his knees, looking almost pleasant and stared off at nothing. 

It proved to be the calm before the storm, as in the next second he was on his knees in front of the bench, screaming as loud as he possibly could. 

But it was okay, because Greg was inside, and he couldn't hurt Greg if he was far away from him.   
Greg could not _breathe_ as he watched John, icy, adrenaline soaked panic sliding down his spine. He shoved his fist in his mouth and hit his knees, keeping his eyes on John, watching him utterly come apart. 

"Oh god," he whispered to himself, clutching at his heart as the damn thing threatened to come out of his chest, "oh Greg, what have you done?" He kept his eyes to John and held shock still, waiting, watching as John screamed out in misery on his balcony. 

John had his forehead on the wood of the patio and his hands in his hair as he screamed. He didn't know what to do. Everything he did was wrong. And now, with his new information, he couldn't even enjoy being loved by Greg without feeling guilty. 

But this was alright. He could show his grief out here. He wouldn't be hurting anyone. 

John drew in another breath and screamed at the wood below him as loudly as he could. It drew out, long and agonized, only stopping when his voice cracked into a wretched sob. 

Greg wanted nothing more than to get up and go to John, to soothe him down and hold him close, to assure him it would be okay. But John clearly wanted privacy and so long as he wasn't hurting himself, John owed him that. 

John curled up in a small ball on the floor of the patio and screamed into his arms until his voice was hoarse and lights were being flicked on above and below him from neighboring porches. 

When he finally calmed down, John stood on shaky legs and stared out at the horizon for several minutes. He lost track of time, soaked in grief, and prayed that he could find a way to keep himself from hurting anyone. That would be his goal. He'd help Greg, then he'd help Sherlock, and he'd do his best to minimize what further damage he did to the two wonderful men. 

For a very brief moment, John looked over the edge of the railing and saw the end of his troubles like a golden staircase leading him home. He leaned ever so slightly and stared, for what he deemed just a few seconds, but in reality was almost five minutes. 

But no, he couldn't. 

He wanted to live, right? 

At this point, he needed to. He couldn't inflict more pain on the two men he loved. John turned and walked back to the door. Only then did he notice Greg, and the key clattered from his hand. 

Greg had his eyes pinched shut for the last four minutes. He'd gotten up to stop John, only to go back down to his knees closer to the door. Who was he to stop the man? He'd been functioning selfishly for months. Months. John...if Greg was free to make his choice, so was John, but god help him he wasn't going to watch. 

He had tears streaming down his face, hands on his knees, head bowed and his breathing wrecked, but he would not allow himself to interfere. John was going to make his choice one way or another. 

John's stomach dropped when he saw Greg and he heard the key clattering on the ground. Greg wasn't supposed to see. In his hazy, scarred mind, he had believed that by getting up and walking away, he could simply exclude Greg from his suffering and therefore protect him. John bent down and tried to get the key again, though it took several tries as his hands were shaking terribly. He fitted it into the slot and slowly unlocked the door, but didn't enter. With his head bowed and expression contrite, he looked like a child or dog preparing to be reprimanded. 

Greg looked up in sharp relief, staggering to his feet, dragging in an audible gasp as he finally began to breathe again. He went to the door and pulled it open, reaching out without a word and gathering John to his chest. He wrapped the somewhat chilled man into his arms and held him for a full minute before speaking. 

"It's alright, it's all alright, John. It's alright." 

He walked them backwards, prepared to carry John at any moment should he fall. His own voice was steady and strong in sharp contrast to how wildly his heart was beating. He walked them over to the sofa and sat them down, holding John's head to his shoulder, pulling a blanket around him to warm him up. 

"Slow, deep breaths, it's alright." 

John believed himself a failure in every aspect of the word. He's failed to keep Greg from pain, and he was being comforted by him, which his twisted mind believed was actively causing Sherlock pain. His mind checked out, numbing him over with a insulated sense of emptiness and safety. 

John allowed himself to be led to the couch and leaned on Greg when he was directed to, but his eyes were glassy and he remained silent. Not once after the initial shock of seeing him and realizing he had failed yet again did John respond to Greg. 

Greg kept that way for a full ten minutes before he leaned back, hands on each of John's shoulders, staring at him. 

"Okay, John...I...I didn't mean to intrude, I'm sorry, I should have left you alone it's just that you never leave in the night and...John please look at me?" 

He sat there with a growing sense of dread, hardly breathing, "John. Please." 

If John were a dragon, he would be able to fly far away from here. He'd soar over clouds and fear absolutely nothing. He'd keep his friends safe and breathe fire down the necks of those who had hurt him. 

John's eyes were open but unseeing. With even breath and no signs of the inner conflict, he stayed still, limp, and thoroughly disconnected in the fabricated reality that was far safer than what laid before him. 

Greg's voice broke then, his composure giving way to fear. 

"John?" 

He openly whined John's name as his heart squeezed too hard for him to keep his voice even, "John, oh god, _please_. John don't do this, oh John please don't do this. John," he gave John a very gentle shake and then pulled him in against his heaving chest, his heart thumping wildly, fingers sliding through John's hair as he rocked him desperately. 

"Don't leave me. Please don't leave me. I won't keep messing up, oh please god, please, John." 

His voice cracked and he tipped his face down to John's shoulder, bordering tears, a scream trapped in his throat.   
"Oh please, John please, please." 

John would look down at his troubles and fears and laugh at them as he soared overhead. Why would he be afraid of water when he breathed fire from his mouth? If he were a great golden dragon, his scales would shatter knives and break crowbars in half. They would be impervious to whips and oh how futile it would be to try and burn something that could exhale flames. 

John's head lolled to the side and his eyes fixed on a random point a few meters from his eyes, behind Greg's head, off in empty space. 

Greg's vision tunneled as John's head limply rolled to the side and he sagged his weight down. Greg began to breathe too fast, too hard, panic getting the best of him. He clutched at John with a hand on the back of his head, supporting him like an infant, his whole body shaking terribly. 

"I'm sorry, oh I'm so sorry," he panted when he could muster the breath. 

He got to his feet, lifting John in his arms, and carried him back to the bed where he laid him down carefully. He hooked up the feeding tube and the saline drip with practiced movements and then sat down on the bed, his back to John, face in his hands. 

"P-please come back to me, John. Please come back. Please come back. I...oh god I am sorry." He pulled at his own hair, narrowly keeping himself from screaming, soaking in pure fear. 

John was oblivious to Greg's movements in his disconnected state of shock and mental isolation.

His mind had no other way to keep him safe. It had run out of promises of a happy life and simply refused to function properly. Instead of the harsh reality he was subject to, it fed John a happy, empowering story that was much easier to take in.

For the next two hours John hardly blinked. He was still as death as he roamed about in his imaginary world, which was far better than anything reality had to offer.

Greg was sitting beside John, having dragged a chair over to the bedside, holding one of John’s hands between his own at his forehead, exhausted and terrified, silent as he sat vigil. He'd made yet another cataclysmic mistake, and he soaked in potential scenarios while John lay there comatose. 

He wondered how far he'd set them back now, how much damage he'd done, and if it was at all reparable. 

He did not dare speak. At one point he'd put on Sherlock's music, but otherwise he just sat there, tears slowly rolling down his face, soaking his neck, sick and terrified over what he'd done. 

John didn't come back to himself for another three hours, at which point he immediately shut his eyes. As his beautiful reality faded, he began to recall what had sent him there in the first place.

A tiny whimper escaped him, though his face was still expressionless. He'd hurt Greg by breaking down. He'd hurt Sherlock by going to Greg. He'd hurt Greg again after and would surely hurt Sherlock soon.

Greg's head came up as he heard John, and he tightened his hold on John's hand, touching John's face. 

"John?" he whispered, his voice raw, not daring to hope overly much, "John can you hear me?"  
John heard Greg as if through a tunnel, and he wondered how they had gotten into one from their home. His fingers shifted and he found that he was holding Greg's hand, which conflicted terribly with the idea that Greg was a kilometer away.

John wanted to go back to his safe place, where he was invincible, and he shrank away from Greg into the covers.

Greg let him go with a stuttered gasp, looking down at his now empty hands as his heart twisted up terribly. John's movement ripped the last of his exhausted strength away and he simply folded over, resting his arms on his bed and pillowing his head on them, groaning in sharp, bitter pain before breaking down completely.

This was how he could keep Greg safe. The house of cards that was John's mind had collapsed into a barely functioning, A - B thought process. He hurt Greg when he went outside. He hurt Sherlock when he went to Greg. To his broken mind, the only option was to do absolutely nothing. 

It was essentially the third option in flight or flight; _freeze_. 

He didn't hear Greg's grief. 

He didn't feel the bed he was in or the tube down his nose. 

John felt nothing, and it was good.


	26. 26

Greg spent the next few hours dozing beside John, exhaustion overpowering him. He woke four hours later with a pounding headache and a deep, aching sadness. 

He took a few minutes to watch John before he finally got up and dragged himself to the bathroom, eventually emerging with a shaved face and fresh clothes. Desperate for any measure of routine, he headed out to the kitchen and prepared them both a meal. John wasn’t responding, but he could not stand the thought of eating at John’s side without something there for him as well. He returned to the room with an egg and a cuppa for John, sitting down and feeding himself next to the bed. 

When he was done, he played Sherlock's tape again, opened the window beside the bed so a breeze could come in. He sat next to John in knee-bouncing distress, desperate for a way to help. Eventually he cracked open a book and began to read aloud. 

"When Mr. Bilbo Baggins of Bag End announced that he would shortly be celebrating his eleventy-first birthday with a party of special magnificence, there was much talk and excitement in Hobbiton..."

Hours slid by until John finally began to respond. His eyes opened slowly and he stared up at the ceiling without registering a thing. As his mind began to filter back to him, he immediately rebelled against it and fought to go back to his safe place in his mind. 

John became aware that Greg was near him, a fact that had previously filled him with joy, and now only pounded him with guilt. 

Even when in delirium John believed that Greg was going to hurt him, he had crawled over to his source of comfort. Nothing had kept him away for long, not even Moriarty whispering about knives and beatings and rape. 

Only his own sense of guilt was enough to keep him away. 

John was terrified of hurting Greg, and now that he saw the pain he caused, he was determined to never hurt him again. 

Without understanding how to stay present and keep from inflicting pain on Greg, his mind had simply withdrawn. But now he was awake, eyes open, and he began to become aware. 

After an hour of reading, Greg had gotten up and fetched himself two drafts from the kitchen, cracking them both and returning to John's side. He downed half of one before starting back in on Tolken. John had often spoken of dragons when he'd drifted away from him in the past, and he hoped that the story would somehow reach him. He was leaned back in his chair, his bare feet propped up on the boxspring, voice calm and steady as he carried on reading. He stopped to take long pulls of his draught, tears constantly rolling down his cheeks, so deeply distressed he was passing the time from word to word. The story was enough to hold his focus, the breeze pleasant and warm, with Sherlock's gentle bow strokes keeping Greg from collapsing in on himself. 

He was all but paralyzed with fear, refusing to allow himself to entertain _what if's_. 

For the moment, he was going to read to John. 

He'd do the same tomorrow, and the day after. He'd feed him and keep him clean. John was not going to some goddamn hospital. Greg caused this, and so he would carry the responsibility of his actions. 

John was tempted out of his fantasy world by the new one and made the transition seamlessly. One moment, he was a dragon soaring high, and the next he was immersed in Greg's words as if he had flown into the book itself. 

As John's attention shifted, so did his posture, and while his eyes still appeared glassy and unseeing, he had tilted his head to the side to better hear Greg. 

Greg was a pint in by then. He did not stop reading for any time longer than to wet his throat. John did not seem to be in any sort of panic, so there was at least that. 

On and on he went, reading, sipping at his beer to keep his nerves from screaming at him, trying his best to stay steady and even. Eventually he leaned over and played the CD again when it stopped, but the pause in his reading was minimal and he was swiftly at it again. 

Greg read on for another two hours before his voice started to fade. He tagged the page and closed the book, setting it aside before scrubbing his face across his arm. 

After a while, he got up and carried John's untouched food and his own empty bottles out of the room, going to the kitchen and washing up. His hands were under the running water when he dropped the plate into the sink and rest his palms on the counter, head hanging. John wasn’t going to come back. If he did, it would likely be much like the time when Greg had foolishly taken John to the shower. There would be agonizing months that passed with Greg groveling on his knees before he accepted him back. 

For a horrific moment, the memory of how terribly alone he’d felt resurfaced. His breathing caught and he broke, the sound of his grief masked by the running faucet. 

He brewed John another cuppa even while knowing it was in vain. He also made himself drink a glass of water and eat a few slices of cheese before taking another cold bottle and John's tea back to the bedroom. 

He set the tea down at John's bedside and pulled a light throw off the foot of his bed, wrapping up in it for a measure of comfort. Greg sat back down in his chair beside John and hooked his toes on the box spring, staring out the open window as he sipped slowly at his beer. All the while, John had been going through his own internal struggle.

When Greg's voice stopped giving John a way to disconnect from reality and plunge into fiction, the broken mess that was John's mind began to think of other things. He did not want to hurt anyone, and he did not want to be hurt.

Lying still seemed to be a good option, but John knew it wouldn't work forever. Slowly his eyes opened and for the first time in nearly a full day he focused on Greg, who was puffy-eyed and staring blankly across the room.

Greg was in his own head, watching the clouds roll past as the sun began its slow descent in the sky. He thought of his family, wondered after his children. His thoughts drifted from his family to Sherlock, and back to John, hating himself a little more every minute. He kept the blanket tight around his shoulders and waited. 

Just waited. 

Eventually, John stirred. As awareness of what he had done struck him, he was filled with a sense of self loathing so deep it made him wish to physically harm himself.

He was growing disgusted with his mind as the minutes passed. He hadn't been protecting Greg! He was just going numb!

John curled his hands and dug the nails of his pointer fingers under those of his thumb until they began to bleed.

Greg pulled from his thoughts without realizing that John was aware at all. He got up as the light faded from the room, making it too dark to properly see. He clicked on the soft bedside light, hit play once more, and gathered up John's second untouched cuppa and his empty bottle, walking them numbly back to the kitchen. For the third time he set to making John tea. 

_Why the fuck are you making him tea?_

His fingers hovered over the beer in the fridge before he exhaled a shaking breath and forced himself to grab a water instead. Yet again he carried back the fresh tea and wrapped back up in his blanket at John's side, staring out into the darkness as little creatures of the night began to sing over the soft tones from Sherlock's violin. 

John had worked the nail on his right index finger under the one on his thumb. It was brilliantly painful, but served as a way for John to disconnect and a penance he could serve for his stupidity. Blood stained the two fingers, but still his eyes were hazy and his face calm. John watched Greg, or rather, had his face pointed in the area Greg occupied, as his mind tried to sort things out. 

Greg finally dragged his attention over to John, mind to getting him his medications and a feeding. He set his water down, intent to set up another line, when he looked down at John's hands and hissed. 

"John," he breathed in aching sadness, grabbing a cloth and tipping a bit of water to it, just enough to clear the blood from John's hands. 

"Stop, love, please don't hurt yourself." 

He leaned forward and wrapped the cool flannel around John's fingers after prizing them apart, looking over his shoulder for bandaging. He'd have to cut John's nails down to nothing if he was going to harm himself while he kept himself detached and distant. 

John didn't acknowledge Greg as the man cleaned his hands. He let his arms go limp, and neither fought against nor assisted his efforts.

He did, however, turn his head and track Greg with his eyes, which was the most he'd responded to him all day.

Greg left the cloth on John's hands and got up, hunting after bandaging in the bag that Miller had put together for him. He sat back down, putting a bit of numbing ointment on John's thumb before starting to carefully wrap gauze around John's fingers. 

When he was done bandaging his thumb, he drew out a pair of nail clippers out and started to trim John's nails to the quick, being exceedingly cautious. He spoke gently to him as he did so. 

"It's been lonely today without you. I miss you. You take whatever time you need, I'm not going to send you away, and I'm not going to leave. It was nice out. I am sure your little bird wondered where you were. That's okay though, maybe you'll come back to me tomorrow. Don't worry, I'll toss bread out for them if-" 

His voice broke and he nodded sadly to himself. putting the clippers away and putting John's hands in a comfortable position. “if you decide you don’t want to come back to me.”

"I'm just...another feed and your medicines...fluids...I'm not going to hurt you, just getting you ready for bed. Maybe...maybe another sleep...it's okay, it's going to be okay. It is." 

John watched Greg's hand and pulled away a fraction of an inch when he saw something metallic headed towards his fingers. 

As far as his experience went, that was generally a bad thing. John braced himself for pain and simply knew this was a punishment of some sort. When the pain never came, he was left mildly confused, though thoroughly relieved. 

The talk of the bird started to draw John forward out of his mind, even though he resisted. Nosce te ipsum was something he simply couldn't achieve at the moment. He needed to be blissfully unaware that he was disconnecting. But as it turned out, he couldn't stay in that state forever and soon began to think. 

John didn't speak, but when Greg was finished with his hands he drew them close and crossed them in little fists over his chest. 

Greg could not stop the little hitching breaths that preceded renewed tears as he hooked John back up, so very like the months before. He leaned over him, setting up another feeding before moving to the desk and starting to crush up John's pills, adding them to the feed before hooking up his fluids. 

Greg then took a pillow and folded himself over the bed, sitting at John's side in the chair with his head on the pillow at John’ side. He laid his head down, arms tight around his chest, wanting to take John's hand but remembering how he'd pulled away. 

"I love you. I'm sorry I messed up so badly, John. I love you." He closed his eyes, cheek on the pillow next to John's elbow, and tried to rest. 

It took another half an hour before John was fully alert, though neither completely aware nor lucid. He shifted and blinked at Greg, who appeared devastated, and took stock of his situation.

He'd hurt Greg again.

John breathed a slow exhale and his hands slowly covered his face. "I'm sorry," he whispered in a voice so quiet it was hardly louder than his breath.

Greg's head snapped up and he stared at him. 

"John?" 

He moved the pillow away, elbows on the mattress, reaching for John's hand before curling his fingers in the air and drawing his hand back to his chest. John very well may not want him to touch him. That whispered apology broke his heart and he shook his head, his voice brittle as he responded. 

"You don't need to be sorry, please don't be sorry. Everything is okay," he offered, desperate to coax John back to him. 

John didn't believe a word of it. Nothing was okay, and he definitely needed to be sorry. "I'm sorry... sorry...sorry...sorry..." With his hands on his chest, John began to rock himself as he repeated the mumbled word over and over. The repetition calmed him somewhat, but his mind was still scattered.

Greg's gut twisted in sharp worry. He was bound to fuck this up as well. He ran a hand over his face and then reached out slowly, putting his hand on John's at his chest, risking the touch. 

"John...please come back to me. Tell me what's going on, please let me help. I don't understand, but I know you're hurting." He was struggling not to simply break down and beg. 

"Please love, talk to me." 

John began to rock himself a bit faster and his eyes darted to Greg's hand, then back to his face. 

"Sorry... Sorry... Sorry..." 

He seemed unable to say anything else, as his guilt and unbearable regret were the only things his mind was able to fathom.

Greg pulled his hand back as though burned, holding it to his chest. 

"O-okay, okay," he nodded to himself, valiantly trying not to cry. 

"Okay, I'm- okay, that's okay. It's okay, John." 

He thought of pushing a sedative and just trying to let the man sleep. He held his hand to his chest and looked up, seeing that the feed was done. He stood up slowly and unhooked it, as well as John's fluids, and then wrapped back up in his little throw, scared now to even touch John. 

"Just...try to sleep, John. It's okay." 

John was rocking in a very specific pattern at a very specific beat with a very specific speed. He kept his words the same, without variation of pitch or tone or volume.

It was a desperate attempt to have something concrete that he could lean on. The rocking didn't change. "Sorry...sorry..."

John's eyes slowly slid back in front of him and grew unfocused once more.

Greg curled his fingers to his lips, watching in acute distress as John fell apart. He didn't know what to do, or how to help. Everything he did seemed to make everything exponentially worse. So he held quiet, constantly a breath away from sicking up, hardly breathing as he watched John clearly suffering. 

"I wish I could help you. I want to help you. I...I'm so sorry, John. I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry. I'm right here if you want me." 

John continued his shock induced rocking for over an hour. It wasn't until he had thoroughly calmed himself that he slowed his rocking, and his repeated word became timed whimpers.

He looked over at Greg then, eyes confused and slightly unfocused. 

"Hurts."

Greg had managed to chew his thumbnail down to nothing when John finally spoke. He imagined John was speaking of his mind, though it could well be his body as well. 

"I can give you more pain medication, or a sedative. Do you want something? I'll...I'll do anything John please, I just want to help you." 

John filtered the words through his mind.

Pain medication would make him not feel. Sedative would make him sleep. Yes, he wanted those things. 

John nodded, though it was a bit inane. "Hurts. Hurts."

Greg got up and with shaking hands went for both. He pulled out the predrawn syringes from Paul and willed his hands to stop shaking as he walked back to John. He sat down and carefully drew John's hand to him, "No pain, just in the port here, no pain," he reminded as he pushed first the sedative. He was slow and timed like Paul had shown him, putting that needle aside before the morphine, again carefully timing as he pushed it, ending with a flush of saline. Five minutes later he binned the trash and then texted Paul that he'd given IV medication as Paul had asked him to do. 

He then set his phone aside and watched John, wrapping his arms close to his own chest, hardly breathing to keep from crying while John was awake. 

"I love you," he whispered, soaking in his acute failure. He'd just needed to vent his fears to a friend, and now he'd crushed John with his own issues. 

"I...I love you." 

John relished the slide of sedation in his veins and his head lolled back. He relaxed fully, eyes half open and staring at Greg in some sort of conflicted expression between appreciation and extreme guilt. 

"Sorry... So sorry... sorry..." 

With an exhausted sigh, John relinquished his tormented mind up to the sweet euphoria of numb sleep. 

Greg got up, shaking from head to toe, and walked to the lav and turned the taps. He stripped out of his clothes and stepping into the scorching shower where he he grabbed a flannel, bit it between his teeth, covered his mouth with his hands and _screamed_. 

He ended up vomiting right where he stood, legs trembling terribly, tears flowing freely down his face and mixing with the fresh flowing water. He ended up on his knees, palms to the floor, head hanging as the crushing guilt took him down. 

An hour later he made his way back to their room and dressed in loose cotton trousers and a waffle-knit shirt, blanket around his shoulders, leaned back over the bed and head on a pillow by John's elbow. He fell asleep with his face slick and his breathing stuttered like a child's after grief. 

John awoke slowly the next morning when the birds had been chirping for quite some time and the sun was above the horizon. With a heavy heart and mind full of hectic conclusions he had drawn, John began to whimper and cry. 

Sherlock was in a hospital bed, maybe dying. Greg was hurt by his actions. 

John closed his eyes tight and put his hands over his face. 

Greg had been up for hours, staying at John after he'd forced himself to eat, just watching in a state of numb disbelief that he'd so massively messed up.

As soon as John began to cry, Greg leaned forward, not daring to touch him. 

"John? Are you in pain?"

John was in great pain, though none of it physical. Mental pain is just as real as physical, and John nodded with another pathetic whimper. 

"It hurts, Greg. It hurts."

Greg leaned forward and put his hand near John's side. "Talk to me, John. What hurts? What hurts? I'm sorry you're in pain, please don't leave again."

"I'm sorry," John breathed and blinked away the haze. "I don't...it hurt and-" he wasn't entirely sure what had happened. He knew that he'd hurt Greg, that he'd hurt Sherlock, and that he'd messed everything up. 

"Hurts, Greg. It's hurting me." 

With eyes pleading and pained, John turned his exhausted face to Greg. 

"Please, help me."

Greg got up and went to John's pills, tipping out two of the blue ones and moving back to John's side. He put them in John's hand without touching him, pointing to the tea at his side. "Cuppa if you want it," he said quietly, bitterly despising himself for what he'd done.

John stared at the pills for a moment before taking them. He breathed as though exhausted, chest rising and falling as though it were a terrible labor. 

"I don't understand."

Greg frowned, a shock of deep fear running through him. 

"They...it's...helps you calm your mind down..." Why did John not recognize the pills?” I...your mind hurts so I...I thought...you don't have to take them if you don't want."

John shook his head. "I don't understand what happened. It hurts. It all hurts." John whimpered to himself and pulled the covers up over his head. 

Greg stepped back and held the pills, not sure what to do. 

"These...I don't know what to do, John. These will help you, or I can just sit with you, I- what can I do? You're okay, I know it's all scary but we can sort it. Tell me what's going on."

John gathered up the blankets around him and drew them up around his shoulders. "I don't know what happened. It hurts. Greg, what happened?"

Greg sat back and set the pills down on the counter, running a hand over his face. 

"You...woke up in the middle of the night...and then you flew away." 

How else could he describe it? John wasn't even properly back yet. 

"I...I accidentally over stressed you...and you left."

John looked up at Greg sadly and his lower lip trembled. Nothing made sense in his shredded mind. "I didn't fly away. I can't fly. I can't. I want to, but I can't." 

"I don't remember- wait, maybe, it's just...it's all blurry. What happened?" 

Greg looked down at his hands, shoulders drawn down, and began to explain. "We talked about Sherlock. It...it was complicated and upset you, and upset me. You tried to comfort me and I said something stupid. That night, you woke up and went outside, and when you saw that I had followed you...you stopped. You flew away," he tapped his own head to explain, "you flew here, and this is the first you've spoken in days."

His voice was very quiet as he stopped talking, still looking down at his hands, his own vision blurring.

_Days? Jesus, what have I done?_

"Days...I-" John shut his eyes and focused on what was happening around him. Even now he could feel it, that numbing, comforting disconnect that offered him a safe place to hide from all this distress. Wasn't it human nature to hide from things that hurt them? 

"I'm sorry, I didn't...I don't know what happened." He still didn't. John was in great pain attempting to sort it all out. 

Greg spoke softly.

"Please don't worry, it's okay. You...it's okay, John, I'm not upset with you. I promise I'm not. Just...just rest, here I'll put on your music, you don't have to hide. I'll be quiet."

He got up and turned on the music again, leaving the window open, curling back up in his blanket with the heels of his feet in his own chair, arms around his knees, being quiet in hopes that John would stay.

John put his head in his hands as ground his teeth. "I didn't mean to. I can't control it. I'm sorry. I didn't...I don't remember... I was just thinking and...days? It's been days?" 

John couldn't fathom how he could simply check out so easily. "What upset me?"

The question set Greg's heart fluttering in panic. He began to sweat, the pressure getting to him. He was just the right combination of words away from saying something that would send John back comatose, and he could hardly stand it. With tears burning under his lashes he whispered, "I'm not upset. Want m-me to read to you more? I'll read, we...we can just read."

John nodded to himself. 

"That bad, was it?" 

What had been said? John was having a difficult time forcing his way back through the haze that blocked his memories and smeared his thoughts. He picked a point he remembered instead and began to work forward. 

"We...we fed the birds, and you cried, and we wrote Sherlock, but that was earlier...and we...Uhm...we, you said-" John flinched and his nails dug into his scalp. 

"But you didn't mean it. You said you shouldn't love me, and I didn't understand, and I thought -oh, God-, but we're hurting Sherlock-" John pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes. 

"Jesus..."

Greg was breathing too fast, staring at the cover of his book, hands shaking. "John please...please...I...I...m-made a mistake please let me worry about that part of it later. He's unconscious, he doesn't know...please..."

His voice was a breathy, weak mess, chin unsteady, feeling small and afraid. The last few days had been horrific and he just knew he was going to drive John back away again.

John grabbed fistfuls of the blankets to keep from injuring himself and only then noticed the bandage on his thumb. 

"I hurt myself...I..." John turned his face away from Greg in shame. 

"I don't want to hurt Sherlock, and I don't want to hurt you. I don't care what happens to me anymore. I don't care. I don't c-care about being _happy_." John spat the word with great disdain. 

"I d-don't want to hurt anyone."

Greg loathed this. "You're not hurting him. He's not here, he's not even awake. You're..."

How was he supposed to fix this? Panic seized his lungs in his chest, stealing his voice for a full minute. 

"Please," he openly begged, "please I want you to be happy. We figured out a plan before you slept! I don't know what happened I thought we sorted it! John please," he shook his head and looked away, breathing as though he'd just run a race. How had this gotten so out of control?

John slowly began to rock himself again, though he retained the ability to speak properly, if not lucidly. 

"I remember the plan! We were going to keep him at Mycroft's then bring him here. I'm supposed to somehow..he's either going to be upset and sad because I need to be held by you, or we'll...No, I _can't_...But..." 

The cloud around his mind was beginning to oppress his thoughts even more and he grit his teeth. 

Greg shook his head, "He's not going to be hurt that I hold you! He won't! Especially if he can still come to us for comfort. I meant that he would be sad if...if he was left to himself and had to watch us while being alone. Please, John, please listen to me he won't be hurt just from you and I-" 

He rubbed his hands in panic, knowing that he was losing him already. 

John curled himself up into a ball and rocked himself. 

"No...no...no..." He abruptly turned to Greg, eyes wide and brimming with tears. 

"I don't want to hurt him, but you said he's asleep. I can't hurt him while he's asleep. But you aren't asleep, and I hurt you. I can't stop _hurting people_!" 

Greg watched John with his heart twisted hard in knots, tears finally dripping down off his lashes. 

"I'm sorry, I'm _sorry_. I can't help that it's...that I miss you when you leave, and that I hurt with you when you're so distressed. I'm sorry I'm- I mean the same can be said of me. Look what I keep doing to you. I can't seem to stop either, but...but you still wanted to be with me before...before this one and..." he shuddered and shook his head, keeping his arms wrapped around his knees, wanting nothing more than to hug John to him and promise him it would be okay. 

He tipped his cheek to his knees and closed his eyes, quietly crying, deeply hating himself. "I'm sorry."

John wanted to isolate himself from Greg, not because he wished to be away from him, but because he believed himself a cancer that hurt everything it touched. But Greg seemed so distressed that he had left, and John allowed himself to consider that perhaps he was still making things worse. 

"Greg...Will you hold me? If you're ashamed or angry and don't want to, I understand, but-" John's eyes brimmed with tears and he wiped them with his sleeve. "But I'm scared and-and confused and I don't know what to do."

Greg nearly fell out of his chair, moving before John finished talking, climbing up onto the bed and whimpering in relief as he gathered John up in his arms and clutched him to his chest, burying his face in John's hair. He did not dare speak, rocking John just as John had been rocking himself. He crossed his legs, pulling John fully into his lap, his grip perhaps overly tight as he shivered in relief. 

John closed his eyes and nuzzled down on Greg's chest. "Thank you...Thank you...I'm sorry...I'm so sorry, Greg, I love you." 

He was shuddering, desperate for the affection but still hesitating to let go. 

"I won't hurt you again. Just t-tell me what to d-do and I'll do it. Just tell me what you want."

Greg shook his head, sliding his fingers through John's hair, holding him tight. 

"I don't need anything from you, I just want you here. That's all. It's okay if you're upset or scared or confused, it's okay. I just need you to stay with me, please don't leave me, John. Please. I'll be more careful, I didn't mean to do this. I love you, just don't leave me. Please don't leave me." 

He was having a hard time gathering his breath back, bending his knee up at John's side to pull him in closer, wrap around him tighter. 

John practically adhered himself to Greg. "I don't know what to do! I keep hurting you. I'm a failure! I'm hurting myself too. I don't want to hurt you, and everything I try just makes it worse! If I hurt myself trying to eat or drink, it hurts you. But if I don't do either, it's worse. If I scream in your arms it hurts you, and if I leave it hurts you more. I can't win!" 

Greg's breathing fizzled out and he went very still for a moment. He'd thought he'd been much better about John's reactions to eating and drinking, to washing, to being near water, but apparently it wasn't enough. 

"I'm sorry, John I'm sorry. I thought..I've been trying to do better...I'm sorry I-" he drew in a sharp breath and resumed rocking John again, no idea how to respond to that. 

"We...we were okay. I just got scared about Sherlock and I talked too much. I'm so sorry, but we're okay, we are. Please, John please, I'm sorry." 

John didn't know how to calm himself or Greg. 

"I'm sorry. I'm trying to be good. I'm trying to be calm and good and nice and helpful but my MIND is my own enemy!" 

John whimpered and wrapped his arms around Greg's neck. 

"I love you. Everything you do is good. You do everything right and I just mess it up. I'm at blame. I'm the wrong one. My brain is fucked up and I can't fix it."

Greg slid his fingers through John's hair again and again, shaking his head and rocking him. 

"We are fixing it, one day at a time, it's okay John you've not done anything wrong! I'm not going to sit here and fault you for being overwhelmed, this isn't your fault. I love you, please John, love, please just breathe. It's okay. You're here and that's all I need. Shh, just breathe, it's okay." 

He dragged the blankets up around them, needing John to feel safe and warm. "I have you, just stay with me."

John felt impossibly small and yet like an enormous mistake. He grabbed a handful of Greg's shirt and pressed it over his face. The smell of Greg was calming, and he slowly attempted to regain control. 

"I just need to not hurt anyone. You want me to stay. I'll do that. I'll stay. I'm sorry I left. I didn't want to leave. It hurts."

Greg carried on holding John, biting his lip to keep quiet, hating that he'd thrown him so far back from the progress they'd made. He tucked his face down to John's head and breathed deep, closing his own eyes in an attempt to slow down. 

John was still lost in a haze of confusion, but could see that what he had done was wrong, and though he hadn't entirely been in control over it, it had hurt Greg, and that was his fault. 

"I'm sorry, love. Let's...Jesus, I'm just sorry. I wish I didn't put you through that. It just...could you explain again what happened? It doesn't make sense."

Greg ran his hands over John's hair and back, trying to keep him calm. "I don't know, John. You were..upset at what I'd said, but I'd thought we sorted it. You went to sleep and then got up in the middle of the night, locked yourself out on the balcony. I...you were screaming and I thought you were just frustrated, so I left you alone but I couldn't walk away. When you came back in you saw me, and then you just...you were gone..." he trailed off, his throat tight and his hands gentle. "You were gone." 

John's memories around that point became overly hazy, while before the point of seeing Greg they only seemed jumbled. 

"Yeah...I... Days...days..." John stopped himself before he began saying the same thing over and over, though the action did seem to bring him comfort. 

"That hurt me. I don't know how to not panic like that. I just...I didn't decide to go away."

Greg tucked his face to John's head, breathing deep as his throat burned. "I didn't mean to hurt you. I was scared. I didn't mean to hurt you, John. I..you never leave like that I thought you were sleepwalking or I'd have given you privacy. I-" his voice broke and he sternly forced himself to clear his throat, pushing down the panic and ache in his chest. 

"I didn't mean to. I'm so sorry. I was scared and I made a mistake." _Again, and again, and again you make these goddamn mistakes, you idiot._

John was hesitant to continue, as he was worried Greg would be ashamed or angry with him. 

"It wasn't you. It was me. I was worried I had hurt you when I screamed, so I went outside, and then you had been watching and...I shut down. I had failed. Greg, it's hard to think about."


	27. Chapter 27

Meanwhile, Mycroft's mobile vibrated with another update. 

_We are having a difficult time keeping him under. He's fighting the sedation and we are only looking at another day or so of keeping him down. Cardiology wants him back up._

Mycroft was faring about as well as could be expected. He had attended a meeting that day, which was tedious but overall productive, and had kept to his schedule easily. 

_Do you need me to come assist you?_

The reply from Miller was swift. 

_Need your authorization. If you want us to go ahead without you here, we will._  
Mycroft combed his hair back with his fingertips and decided he should be there just in case. 

_I give you the authorization, and I am also on my way._

Miller gave the instructions to the staff, and as Sherlock began to fight the last dose of sedative, they simply allowed him to begin fighting to the surface. 

Mycroft was on his way and arrived at the hospital soon. He was both glad to be returning to Sherlock's side and apprehensive of what state he would be in when he woke. Either way, Mycroft would be there. He walked down the hall and opened the door. 

Miller was at Sherlock's side, watching him closely as Sherlock simply stared up at the poster on his ceiling. Miller looked up at Mycroft as he came in, speaking quietly. 

"He pulled up out of that in ten minutes time. Not moved at all since, just opened his eyes. Not bothering to fight the tube, not responding to me." He looked back to Sherlock, pleased with his vitals at least. 

Mycroft sat down in the chair by Sherlock's bed and took his hand gently. 

"Sherlock? It's me, Mycroft." 

He didn't wait to see how he would respond and began tapping away to repeat the same message in Morse. 

‘I came here to make sure you were feeling alright.’

Another pause to wait for the code to catch up. 

‘Everything is alright now. You're safe.’

Sherlock did not move, other than to turn his eyes to his brother for a moment, staring at him before looking back up to the ceiling. 

_I don't like the dark!_

_You don't have to go back, you won't be in the dark._

He chewed unhappily at the breathing tube in his mouth but did nothing to fight it, simply accepting what was happening. For now, he would take the chance to look at the poster. He was trying to breathe with the respirator despite how uncomfortable it was. Miller moved over and disconnected the tube from the machine breathing for him, watching carefully to see if he'd maintain his own air. 

"I'll take the tube out in a minute, let's just make sure he's strong enough."

Mycroft put his hand on Sherlock's shoulder. Would he still trust him after this? 

"You needed to get some rest, Sherlock. You needed it. I promise, nothing bad will happen to you. Nothing bad happened to you while you were sleeping. It's alright here. Everyone who comes near you is checked by me. I swear, you're safe." 

Sherlock could not help the way his eyes cut to Mycroft as his brother asserted that _nothing bad had happened_ while he was _sleeping_. He stared at his brother, his former refuge, in an attempt to place the sudden cruelty. Sherlock looked away again, chewing roughly at the tube between his teeth. 

Miller moved over and looked down at him. "Okay, Sherlock. Let's have this out." He set to preparing the tube for removal before untying the strap and instructing Sherlock to cough, pulling the tube in one fluid motion as Sherlock gagged and sputtered, tears suddenly springing from his eyes. 

In the next moment, despite the way his voice cracked and went hoarse from disuse, he _screamed_. The breech of trust had cut him to the quick, taken him out at the knees, and left him in hell for days. He lay there panting as the sound fell away, pinching his eyes shut and shaking. 

It was enough to send the steady older Holmes brother in a tailspin. He jumped a bit, though he was expecting it. 

"I'm sorry, Sherlock. I'm sorry. Please, look at me, I didn't mean to. I thought it would make you feel better if I told you you wouldn't go to the dark. I thought you would just go to sleep then wake up. I didn't know...look at me, 'Lock. Please? I'm sorry."

Sherlock's limited mind was racing. His brother had called him ' _Lock_ , which made him ache to curl up in the safety of Mycroft's arms and hide from the horror he'd been in. Only that's where he'd been when he was suddenly forced back down, taken there with his brother's consent. 

"I _believed you_ ," he croaked, his voice wrecked from the tube, "I- y-you s-s-said!" 

He grit his teeth and went as quiet as he could manage, hands shaking in the restraints. 

"Shh...It's alright. I know. I thought it would help you if I said there wouldn't be any dark. I thought you would fall asleep, and wake up as if there was nothing between. Like in surgeries. But I suppose you were out for days..." 

Mycroft put his head down in his hands. 

"I acted rashly. I shouldn't have made a promise I couldn't keep. From now on, I swear to you I'll be honest." 

Sherlock kept his eyes closed. He could see the light of the room behind them, was aware of the poster above him, did not have to face any of the people around him. He knew this darkness. This wasn't the place Moran lurked. No, he was somewhere else, deeper, darker, where the light didn't reach and no one called him 'Lock and everything hurt. 

And oh, how Sherlock wanted to believe his brother. He _always_ wanted to believe his brother. There was no one, nothing, left for Sherlock outside of Mycroft. That thought reminded him how trapped he was. Either trust Mycroft, or wait for Moran to walk into the room while he lay there alone. He whimpered pathetically, deeply afraid, unsure how to proceed from there when every option seemed to be wrong. 

Mycroft wrapped his arms around Sherlock and gently held him. 

"If you want, I'll stay here with you. When you sleep, I'll be here. I'll work on my laptop and keep you safe and sound." 

Mycroft searched for something to tell his little brother that might comfort him. He could read from the blog, but didn't know if that would upset him at the moment. 

"Do you remember how mummy used to call you Locket? It was only when you were a baby and toddler, so perhaps not. 'Oh, look at our little Locket! Isn't he precious?'" 

Mycroft mimicked his mother's voice with just a bit too much pitch. 

Sherlock did indeed remember when his mother called him that. Before he was a disappointment, before he was _oh Sherlock, must you_ , before 7% and recklessness became all there was left to enjoy, before My left the house for Uni and only became a fixture at holidays. He loathed holidays. Well, before… _no_. 

He wrenched his mind away from John and back to his brother, back to the memory, to the way his mother's face had lit up in delight when he'd shown her a little flower or some creature he'd caught. 

He nodded sadly, his eyes still pinched closed, flexing and releasing his fingers. His legs were lighter and he shifted them to find out why, discovering the lack of metal trappings around them. They were in heavy plasters, but that was infinitely better than the metalwork. 

"H-How long?" he breathed, wondering how long the reprieve would last. 

"Your legs...I am not sure. I don't think they will have to do so many corrections again. I won't let them hurt you, though. I promise that. We just want you to be able to walk again." 

Mycroft crawled up onto the side of the bed and laid down. He unclasped Sherlock and placed his hands on his chest, then wrapped his arms completely around his injured baby brother. 

"Mother was always so delighted in you, even when you made a mess playing pirate or with an experiment. You'd run in from outside, barefoot with dirt on your face and she'd scoop you up and spin you around."

Sherlock went stiff, sucking in a sharp breath and turning his face away from Mycroft, eyes pinched shut as fear and trepidation twisted his gut. Mycroft had meant comfort, but that was gone. How long until they came back for him then? An hour? A day? 

_I thought it would be better for you if you didn't know he was coming back._

He tightened his fingers on his hospital gown at his chest as he began to shake, his imagination providing all the possible outcomes of the day. Would the lights go first, or would Moran want him to see? Would he take the plasters off, or drive the screws right through them? His heart hammered in his chest and he began to breathe too fast, whimpering pathetically in his fear. 

"P-please," he breathed, his voice a mess, "I'l...wh-what do you want? What c-can I s-say?" 

Mycroft recognized the behavior. While it sickened him that Sherlock asked what he wanted as if his own older brother were going to punish him, Mycroft recognized that he could set Sherlock at ease much easier than he could remove the habit so forced into him by pain and fear. 

"All I want is for you to be safe and happy. I want you to not be in pain. That is what I want, and I'll hurt anyone who causes otherwise. Do you understand? I want you to be safe. As long as nobody is hurting you, I won't be angry. If anyone hurts you, I'll kill them. Do you understand? Please, Sherlock, I'm your big brother. I've got you. You're safe now."

None of what Mycroft was saying to him meshed with how he'd sent him back down into hell. Sherlock nearly choked on his own throat as it swelled up tight on him, breathing wildly through his poorly-aligned nose, teeth clenched tight as Mycroft kept his arms around him. He was painfully confused, wanting one thing and knowing another. He dug his fingers into his chest through the gown, openly weeping.

"I- I..." he gasped for breath, deeply frightened, aching for the protection Mycroft had offered before, "what d-did I _do_?" The question broke in his throat, the words cracking as he lay there shaking, "I didn't _mean to!_ I- I- wh-what did I _do_?"

Mycroft's blood was full of needles and he felt it sharply in his heart. 

"No, 'Lock, this isn't a punishment. I didn't mean to punish you. I thought you would be more comfortable when you were asleep. I thought you were just....asleep! I didn't know it would cause you this much distress." 

Mycroft pulled Sherlock closer to his chest and kissed his temple. 

"We sedated you because your heart was having troubles. When you are awake, you become afraid, and your heart is taxed. It needed a break. Could you tell me why you don't want to sleep?"

Moran’s voice immediately bombarded Sherlock’s mind. _Go on, tell big brother what fun we have._

Sherlock screamed as he felt the breath on the side of his face, turning to his side and burrowing against his brother, doing anything that he could to hide from his tormentor. God, were they really going to start so soon? He grabbed at Mycroft as tightly as he could manage, fingers trembling. 

" _No_ ," he cried against his brother's chest, disoriented and trapped. "He's always h-here! ALWAYS! H-He won't leave me, I- in th-the dark and-" 

Sherlock felt the slick, hot slide of fingers down his spine and sobbed, shivering hard enough to lock up his muscles, already knowing what was coming. 

Mycroft pressed Sherlock's head against his chest and his face mirrored Sherlock's distress. 

"It's okay! I've got you. He won't hurt you." 

Mycroft ran his hands up and down Sherlock's back, arms, shoulders, neck and head in an attempt to keep him feeling safe. 

"I've got you. This is me. You don't want to be alone with him? Alright. I won't leave you. I'll stay right here and keep you safe. Could I read to you from John's blog? Would that help?"

Miller moved over to Sherlock's line and very quietly slipped a needle into the hub, pushing a tranquilizer. He was not going to watch Sherlock's panic undo the work of the past week. 

Sherlock was shaking his head as a sudden, warm sense of abrupt calm washed over him. He dragged in a deep, slow breath and closed his eyes, sinking against his brother's chest, his heart rate suddenly slowing. He kept his hold on Mycroft, though he did not speak or move very much for a full five minutes. 

"I...I am trapped in my mind with him when they f-force me to sleep and I cannot wake. After a few hours, I lose the...a-awareness that it is a...that it is m-my own mind and not reality," he explained, much calmer, his voice still metal on concrete from days of intubation. 

Mycroft couldn't fathom the terror of being mentally trapped with Moran. In all this, he never once thought to be afraid for himself, even when two people had been tortured, Greg shot, and several of his agents killed. It had never even crossed his mind. He'd protected himself, mind, as he was necessary to the protection of Sherlock. 

It was strange, still, that the fear of torture had never graced him until now, when Sherlock's own mind came after him during supposed repose. 

"I'm sorry that happens to you. Is there anything I can do to help?"

Sherlock's answer was flat, his voice deadpan. "Do not f-force me to be in that pl-place," he breathed, slowly drawing his hands away from Mycroft and tucking them protectively back to his own chest. 

"I want to go home." 

Mycroft looked up at Miller questioningly. "Sherlock...If you are in panic, and your heart is having trouble, you could be in danger if we don't sedate you. But from now on I'll leave it up to your choice. I won't force you to go back to Moran."

Sherlock touched his shaking fingers to his lip, though he was mostly steady due to the artificial calm. 

"A-All I want is to go h-home now. I want to go home. L-Let me s-sit up and take a sh-shower and go home." 

_Well _Mycroft thought, _thank god he wasn't afraid of showers like John.___

__"I'll ask the doctors, alright? I need to make sure it's safe for you to come home. You've been struggling a bit, and we want to be sure."_ _

__Mycroft turned to Miller. "Would that be alright?"_ _

__Miller's brow arched and he shook his head, "Let's see if we can't get you eating, and...a few days stable, Sherlock. You've...you're in ICU, we've been breathing for you the last ten or so days, your heart is very stressed. We need to work with your hands and your legs, try and get you-"_ _

__Sherlock kept his fingers at his lips and spoke very softly._ _

__"Shut up. Just...shut _up_." He closed his eyes as his hands began to tremble, shaking his head. _ _

__"I don't w-want your false f-fucking optimism. I..." he choked down the fear at speaking to them like that, damning himself anyhow._ _

__"I want to go to B-Baker Street."_ _

__Mycroft stroked Sherlock's hair and kissed the top of his head._ _

__"It's alright, 'Lock. You'll go back to Baker Street. If you don't mind, I'd like to come with you. I know how you don't like being alone. But for right now, your heart needs the rest. It is better for you physically if we stay here, together, for just a little while longer. You can help. If you're calm, things will go by faster and we can leave sooner."_ _

__Despite the tranquilizer, Sherlock was getting himself worked up. He wanted out of the goddamn bed, out of restraints, he wanted to get up and _run_. _ _

__"I w-want _out_ ," he breathed, suddenly pulling back enough to put a flat palm on the mattress, struggling to sit up, heedless to the tube down his nose or the central lines running under his collarbone. His arm shook horribly, the muscle atrophied and deeply wounded, healing but not entirely healed. He managed to get himself half way up when pain seared across his chest and his back hit the air, setting off the raw nerve endings of freshly knit scars. _ _

__It only served to push him on, making him scream out in terrified frustration, deeply frightened but pushing through it. It was the same headspace he'd been in while egging Moran on, giving lip even with a rusty blade in his arm or white-hot clamps at his ribs. He cradled the arm with pins still glistening above the skin to his chest and a moment later, managed to sit up, panting and tear-streaked but temporarily victorious._ _

__"Sherlock! You've got to lie back down, you're going to hurt yourself," Miller warned, hovering close but not yet putting his hands on him._ _

__Mycroft was hesitant to push Sherlock back down, and instead put his hand on his shoulder as he went._ _

__"It's alright, 'Lock. It's okay. You're alright."_ _

__It seemed so terribly wrong for a man to have this much pain and distress just to sit up. When Sherlock was finally upright, Mycroft gently wrapped his arms around his shoulders and helped him remain that way._ _

__"You're so strong, 'Lock. You're so strong. I'm proud of you."_ _

__Finding his brother aiding him instead of pushing him back was massively helpful. He dropped some of the defensive nature of his posture, leaning into his brother and much to his chagrin, reveling in the encouraging praise. His breathing was chaotic and his spine rounded, his core strength utterly shot, but he was _sitting up_ and he'd not done so in so long he forgot how it felt. _ _

__At the moment, it felt bloody terrible._ _

__He closed his eyes and let his head hang, chin resting on Mycroft's forearm, trembling with exertion._ _

__"I d-don't like this," he breathed after a few minutes, "a-any of...I w-want to go home, I don't l-like it here."_ _

__Mycroft brushed Sherlock's hair back and kissed his temple. "It's alright. I know you want to leave, but I can't let you hurt yourself."_ _

__At least he had done something right, and hadn't pushed Sherlock back down. He supported his little brother as much as possible and tipped his own head down._ _

__"But look at you! You're sitting up! You're making progress! If you keep at it like this, you'll be home soon."_ _

__Sherlock closed his eyes against that. He had so much _progress_ left to make that it was overwhelming in its scope. He wanted out. _Out_. _ _

__For several more minutes he sat there, supporting himself with the aid of his brother, before his heart seized up and his lungs refused to work. He'd opened his eyes, only to find a growing pool of blood in his lap. The exertion of sitting had caused his nose to bleed, and Mycroft and Miller's positions both blocked their view of it._ _

__His rational mind shuttered off as he stared at the massive drops streaking down to pool where his gown dipped between his thighs, choking him at the sight of it._ _

__"M-My," he breathed in pure, unadulterated horror, not understanding._ _

__Mycroft began to speak calmly to Sherlock despite his own fear. "Just a nosebleed, 'Lock. It's alright. Let's get you resting again, alright?" Mycroft supported Sherlock with one arm and grabbed the remote with the other. The bead slowly rose up to meet him as he lowered Sherlock down, a reclined position which Mycroft hoped would be less stressful than flat on his back._ _

__

__Mycroft supported Sherlock with one arm and grabbed the remote with the other. The bed slowly rose up to meet him as he lowered Sherlock down, a reclined position which Mycroft hoped would be less stressful than flat on his back._ _

__Sherlock began to fight as he was pressed backwards, exacerbating the bleed, his voice failing in his fright. He whimpered in acute distress, reaching out and grabbing Mycroft's shoulder blindly._ _

__Blood had splattered on his thighs due to the position he’d been in when his nose started, and set off a lightning storm of panic and visceral memory recall, preferring fire and blades to what he imagined was happening._ _

__Mycroft had the bed tilted up so Sherlock was still somewhat upright._ _

__"It's alright, 'Lock. It's alright. Nosebleed. What is happening to you right now is a nose bleed. You know full well that I would never hurt you, or allow anyone to hurt you. I need you to think for me. If I'm here, it means you're safe. The blood is from your nose."_ _

__Sherlock dissolved into tears, clutching at Mycroft's shoulder. He pinched his eyes shut as blood ran down the back of his throat and coated his lips. Miller handed Mycroft a soft cloth to help, while Sherlock gagged and lost sight of where he was, the taste of blood too shocking for his exhausted mind._ _

__"P-" he stuttered, gasping for air, "please, g-god please don't."_ _

__Mycroft gently wiped the blood off Sherlock as best he was able and put one hand on the back of his little brother's head to help him position himself._ _

__"It's okay. I've got you. I'm your brother. 'Lock, I need you to listen to me. Tell me where you are. Look up at the ceiling and tell me where you are."_ _

__Sherlock sat with his head tipped forward, trembling violently, staring down at his lap. His hands fisted in the blankets pooled around his hips._ _

___Moran walked away from him, leaving him on his chest and hanging off the edge of the table, hardly breathing. He'd not known pain of that sort before, and it was presently all he could focus on. He was vaguely aware of the sound of trousers being done up, the buckle of a belt clanking against itself, though his mind had shut down beyond pain and fear._ _ _

___"Oh, don't look so glum," Moran laughed as he came back, sliding his hand down Sherlock's back, dipping his fingers lower and making Sherlock attempt to wrench away, screaming out in agony as he torqued his grotesquely shattered arm. The lights faded, and when he woke he was in the company of a physician, locked down on his table, the sheet over him bloodied from hip to knees._ _ _

__Sherlock gagged, sick with the blood in his mouth, from the horrific taste in the air. He shifted, still feeling the damaged nerves at the core of his body and _screaming_ , shoving hard against the body at his side in renewed, desperate panic. _ _

__"NO! _NO!_ " He gagged again, shifting back, nearly falling from the bed as he flailed pathetically for escape, disoriented and out of his mind with fear. _ _

__Mycroft was almost pushed off the bed, but he gripped the rail and pulled himself up._ _

__"'Lock, please! It's me!"_ _

__He pulled him into a tight hung, even while Sherlock fought him. The pain of having to hold Sherlock down while Sherlock believed Mycroft to be hurting him was more intense and blinding than he had ever given Greg credit._ _

__Mycroft grabbed an armload of blankets and pushed them onto Sherlock's lap to cover the blood and give him a semblance of protection._ _

__Sherlock struggled with nearly his full strength for half a minute, at which point his body failed him and he screamed his defeat, sobbing as he went slowly lax against his brother without realizing who had him._ _

__"I...I D-DON'T WANT IT!" He shouted in panicked rage, speaking to echoes of traumas past, denying what Moran insisted he _loved_. Every time Moran had pushed into him, he’d purr lewdly in Sherlock’s ear, telling Sherlock how much he knew he wanted the attention. _ _

__Sherlock shouted again against Mycroft's shoulder, bloodying his shirt._ _

__Mycroft held Sherlock in his own trembling arms and tears burned his eyes. Now was not the time to fall apart, though, and he kept himself sounding calm._ _

__"It's alright. You don't have to do anything you don't want to do. I would like you to listen to me, though. I would like you to know who I am. Do you recognize my voice?"_ _

__Sherlock fisted his hands in Mycroft's shirt as it occurred to him that his arms were free. Moran never took him with his arms free. He delighted in strapping Sherlock down before taking what he wanted._ _

__Mycroft's question slowly reached him and he considered it, his breathing still ragged and his body tense in anticipation of pain._ _

__He suddenly screamed out again, remembering that he'd seen his brother earlier. "MY! MY HELP!"_ _

__Mycroft didn't wish to invalidate Sherlock by telling him that he didn't need help, and instead wrapped him up tighter in his arms._ _

__"Okay. I've got you. I've got you. Look, you have a blanket to protect you. I've got you. I'm here."_ _

__Mycroft's voice registered to his traumatised mind and Sherlock grabbed at him, shouting against his shoulder again with less panic._ _

__"My," he sobbed, pulling at his brother roughly, angry that he'd been put in danger and deeply relieved to be safe once again, no linear idea of what had just happened._ _

__"You are safe!" Mycroft held Sherlock against his chest and began to rock back and forth. Each time he came forward, he whispered that Sherlock was safe, and each time he went back, that My had Sherlock._ _

__He went on for several minutes without other communication._ _

__Sherlock's panic slowly subsided, the rocking motion and his brother’s calm assurances lulled him down to something calmer._ _

__"He hurts," Sherlock eventually breathed, allowing his brother to take all his weight, "I despise him."_ _

__Mycroft ran his fingers through Sherlock's hair and closed his eyes._ _

__"I know it hurts," he said softly while keeping up his rhythm of rocking._ _

__"He will never touch you again. I had him shot and killed."_ _

__Sherlock nodded, keeping as tucked into the shelter of his brother as was possible. With memory fresh and his current situation safe, he began to speak._ _

__" He w-would...would make me watch him...him stealing my voice while b-beating John when-" he swallowed, ears buzzing and stomach twisting at the memory of John screaming in agony while Moran was at Sherlock’s back, tearing into him, "when he would...You can't e-escape that pain...You can't hide in y-your mind it's..." he shuddered as tears silently rolled down his cheeks._ _

__Mycroft couldn't fathom the horror. He didn't love anyone romantically, not as Sherlock had loved John, but if it compared to the brotherly, protective love he felt for Sherlock, it was intense. To see it so defiled... Mycroft kissed Sherlock's head and gave him a light squeeze._ _

__"John isn't being hurt anymore. I think- wait, I've a picture of him, if you want. It's of what he's been doing recently. He's smiling and holding a bird. He actually got the thing on his hand. It isn't a tame bird either. Would you like to see?"_ _

__Jesus, they needed a distraction._ _

__Sherlock tucked his fingers up to his lips and nodded, "Yes. P-Please, if you've...yes." He puzzled at John with a bird, but it wasn't John screaming, and so that he would take._ _

__Mycroft sang praises to Greg for sending it in his mind and found it on his phone._ _

__"Doesn't he look pleasant?" There was a genuine smile on his face that made John look a good bit more like himself._ _

__Sherlock stared at the phone in Mycroft's hand, focusing first on the familiar pattern of Lestrade's balcony. He'd let himself into Greg's flat more than once via that route, and the familiar clip of the flowerbox was instantly recognizable. Slowly he turned his focus to John, starting at the back of his head, taking in the overly long and silver-shot mess of hair before allowing himself to look at John's face._ _

__He had a little starling in his hand, the thin little talons pressing against laced scar tissue. Both John and the bird looked utterly at ease. He held his breath as he took in the expression on John's face. He was far too thin, and the tube still in his nose, though he'd fleshed out since Sherlock had last seen him weeks ago. It was clear that he was thriving._ _

__A faint smile touched his own lips as he reached out and took the phone from his brother, gently touching the image as his vision blurred._ _

__He'd done it._ _

__He'd been bound and determined to find a way for John to live again, and perhaps he wasn't there yet, but he would be._ _

__"His h-hair wants trimming," he breathed for no reason whatsoever. Clearly Greg would do it when it didn't frighten him. He traced the wisps of peppered blond and fixated on the image before closing his eyes, trying to call back what it had felt like to be hugged by him._ _

__But where the visceral memory had been, there was now only descriptive shadow. He could not actively recall in first person what John’s arms had felt like. Only the memory that it had felt so incredible that he needed to remember it. He opened his eyes and handed the mobile back, both relieved to see John thriving, and aching to his core with loss._ _

__Mycroft took the phone and put it on the bed beside him. He pulled Sherlock flush against his chest and closed his eyes._ _

__"He's happy. He's doing so well. He drinks tea now. Two cups last time he told me. He eats eggs for breakfast. John Watson is living."_ _

__Sherlock nodded against Mycroft's chest, managing three full, regular breaths before the tears came. He curled his fingers up to his lips and ran Mycroft's words through his head again and again._ _

___John is living. John is happy, and he's living. That was the goal and you have achieved it. It's done. John is living._ _ _

__He was quiet as his breathing hitched. He both celebrated and mourned._ _

__"That's...that's good," he whispered, his voice just as much of a mess as his bloodied, tearstained face, "he's...I w-wanted that. I wanted...it's done now."_ _

__"You did that, Sherlock. That smile, that life. You gave him that. You've done so well. You've sacrificed so much for him, and I am so proud of you."_ _

__Mycroft wanted Sherlock to be proud of himself, happy, and understand that what he gave up was not in vain._ _

__"What you did was so brave. You sacrificed your mind palace, the most valuable thing you have, so he could hold that little bird and smile. You are the most giving, selfless friend he could have the privilege of having.”_ _

__That wasn't right though. Sherlock had protected John from further harm and enabled this to occur, that was it._ _

__"I don't make h-him smile," he whispered, recalling how he'd always been able to coax a smile out of John in nearly any situation before… _before_ , "but G-Greg does, and that's good. Greg is a g-good man and he won't hurt..." his expression collapsed mid-sentence and he shook his head against Mycroft's shoulder as grief roared over him like a massive wave. _ _

__"I wouldn't have hurt him. I...I wouldn't have h-hurt him either," his fingers curled tight in Mycroft's shirt as he dragged in a pathetic, stuttering breath. John was settled with Greg, smiling and at peace. With that happy knowledge came the assurance that he’d forever lost John, and was now and would always be _alone._ _ _

__"Wh-what am I to do without-" he cut off the question, already knowing the answer._ _

___John is happy. Leave it. He's happy. That's all that mattered. Stop fucking crying. John is happy._ _ _

__Mycroft scooted his hips closer to Sherlock so he could lie down, an action he previously had avoided when the man thought himself being abused._ _

__"Yes, Greg is a good man. I know John could have been happy with you as well, and I am sorry it did not turn out that way."_ _

__Sherlock leaned down against his brother and made himself be still. He was going to have to focus. The pain of it was intolerable, but it would come to an end if he could focus. He...all he had to do was be stable. They never said he had to walk, he just needed to be stable._ _

__He would be able to put himself down when there were not so many eyes on him, and it would stop. All the agony of losing John would _stop._ It wouldn't steal his breath as he wouldn't be breathing, and it wouldn't cut through his heart as it wouldn't be beating. _ _

__It would end. It would._ _


	28. Chapter 28

Sherlock pulled to mind the image he'd just seen of John on his brother’s phone, and plastered it to the front of his thoughts. He'd succeeded, and now he could go. That awareness settled a deep, blanketing peace over him even as the pain in his heart made breathing difficult. 

"W-will you ask...ask Greg to send pictures when he can? I...I know I...I won't see him again but-” Sherlock trailed off, indecisive. He wanted to see as much of John as was possible before he died, but this image of John was beautiful and he knew better than to push it. 

“No. Perhaps it's better to l-leave it...yes it's...b-best to just st-stop." 

Mycroft's heart leapt into his throat. 

"No!" It sounded strangled and panicked, and Mycroft quickly corrected himself. 

"No, 'Lock. It wouldn't be better. Remember how I told you that John would be happy? Remember how we all told _John_ that? He never believed us. He wanted to die. Now, look at him. He's smiling, eating and drinking, living a nice life. He's happy. You can be too."

Sherlock had meant that he'd stop where John was concerned, at least verbally, but his brother was no fool and caught the deeper meaning despite his intentions. 

"I w-was never happy before. How could I h-hope to be n-now that-" _now that the work's gone, now that I've lost him, now that I'm just_ this? "U-unless you plan on lobotomizing me which...n-now that I'm...n-normal at best...I do n-not see what could possibly...I will s-sit alone and stare out of your w-windows until I am an old man." 

He closed his eyes and exhaled slowly against Mycroft, "With M-Moran in my head and...p-perhaps the sentence is f-fitting. Perhaps th-this is justice in the end." 

"No, you will grow old with Greg and John around you and Molly visiting and me nagging you occasionally to gain some weight. You'll be happy and loved and if you try and tell me otherwise I'll plug my ears and sing something wretched." 

Mycroft closed his eyes and gave a small nod. 

"And when I get my mind set on something, it happens. You know that."

Sherlock did not argue. Mycroft was in denial and Sherlock was not going to force him to accept hopelessness. Perhaps he'd gain use of his dexterity back enough to type his brother an explanation before he took his life. He owed his brother at least that much, and hoped he’d be able to give it. 

"Th-thank you for showing me. I n-needed...I wish I could have seen in person but...he's not screaming and..." he'd wanted that, just for a moment, just a glimpse when he'd said his final goodbye. Instead he'd all but tortured John, making him cry and beg. It had been horrible, and where he couldn't remember how it felt to have John fold him in his arms and hug him, he could very sharply recall every line and tear he'd put on John's face in hyper detail. 

"Could...m-maybe could you p-print that for me? I'd...he's a-always so sad in my head."

Mycroft was on his phone in half a second. The message was sent with the picture attached for Sherlock to have several in different sizes. 

"Already being done. They will likely be here by tonight. If you ever need anything, just let me know and you'll have it. I love you." Mycroft put his phone back down and cuddled up next to Sherlock. 

"Really, though, it will get much better."

Sherlock closed his eyes as Mycroft comforted him and tried to simply accept the warmth of someone who didn't wish him harm and who was not climbing the walls to escape him. He was quiet for a long while before he spoke again, his voice strained and rough. 

"I'm ordinary. What made me...w-worthwhile is _gone _. Outside of my mind I am _worthless_. I'm ordinary, and J-John is a top rate trauma surgeon p-playing with birds. My m-mind is not so gone th-that I will e-ever...how am I to do this, My? I'm _nothing_."__

__Mycroft sighed and eased him closer. "Yes, he is a top rate trauma surgeon playing with birds...that is true. But you are more than just your mind. Even if you weren't, you deduced that John didn't like Paul by his clothes. You can still see what others can not."_ _

__Mycroft wanted Sherlock to be happy. He wanted there to be just a glimmer of hope for him._ _

__"Please, understand that you are loved."_ _

__Sherlock closed his eyes, deeply disheartened. Did his brother expect him to survive as a drooling simpleton, watching the man he'd loved and sacrificed his entire being for enjoy his life with Sherlock's only other friend in the world?_ _

__There was nothing for him._ _

__Nothing._ _

__No one cared fuckall about him outside of his usefulness. John was a good man, always had been, endearing and worthy of love in his own right but Sherlock? Sherlock earned his keep._ _

__A lame workhorse was a useless workhorse._ _

__"J-John...he's still a doctor. It's still...he still h-has it. It's there. John as we knew him is still...he's still there. He'll p-put the birds down someday and he'll practice again. This c-cannot be all there is for him. I've seen...I've seen him wh-when Greg...when he thinks Greg is in h-harms..." his chin trembled for a moment as he recalled the protective fire that John used to direct at anyone who dared to threaten Sherlock, "he's in love with Greg. Greg is in l-love with him. John will come back to himself. He will."_ _

__"I...I wouldn't say that they are _in love_." Mycroft hesitated, though, as it did appear that way. Perhaps a bit of Florence Nightingale syndrome, but it could wear off. Or get stronger. _ _

__"Though I see what you are saying. Perhaps John will practice again, though I doubt he'll do surgery or anything involving too much blood. Imagine if someone came in with a cut on them that looked like something he'd had. I doubt he'll be able to handle a scalpel steadily for years. But...even if he never practiced again, you would love him. Even if you never deduced another thing in your life, John would love you."_ _

__"Stop," Sherlock breathed, Mycroft's words too cruel to tolerate, "don't s-say that to me. Don't- why would y-you say..." he shivered and brought his fingers to his lips in that childish, self-comforting way that he'd become used to._ _

__"He does n-not love me anymore. Not anymore. N-Never again he's...just as y-you said, if he's exposed to b-blood or anything that m-makes him think...I am as p-painful as the lash to him. Him n-not wanting me to s-suffer and him _loving me_ are w-worlds apart. I would never want A-Anderson to _suffer_ but I do n-not love him. John has made his feelings towards m-me very clear." _ _

__He drew in a sharp, pained breath and stared up at the poster, wishing he'd managed to be calm long enough to watch that sodding program with John._ _

__"I th-think it might make him s-sad that...that he feels..that he d-dislikes me...but that is the ex-extent. I won't ever...I knew it was the last I'd see him, there in your compound. I know he's gone, My, we d-don't have to pretend any longer."_ _

__Mycroft pulled Sherlock flush against his chest. Should he just help Sherlock accept and move on, or continue to give him hope?_ _

__"Sherlock...It looks a bit grim. I don't know if he will love you like he did before. But he'll be happy with you."_ _

__Sherlock closed his eyes and lightly pressed at his lips, tears slipping quietly down his face. He was calm, just deeply saddened and his metaphorical heart ached._ _

__"I don't know h-how..." his voice cracked and he sniffed, calling to mind again the image of John, "I was n-nothing but a...a junkie before...he w-was the only good thing to happen to me in twenty y-years. I don't know h-how to be without..." he shook his head and listened to his brother's heart beating, accepting the deep ache of loss and loneliness to settle over him like a well worn jacket._ _

__It _hurt_ , and there was no way around it. _ _

__"I wasn't...wasn't a _f-freak//i > to him. He...he saw _me_. He saw m-me and no one else w-wanted to see me. If there was e-ever going to be someone who wanted me after all of _th-this_ , it would have been John Watson.”__ _

___His voice trailed off to nothing as he stared down at his hands, twisting with misery._ _ _

___“I w-wish Moran had killed me.”_ _ _

___Mycroft shook his head. "No, 'Lock, no. You're wonderful. I am glad you are alive, as selfish as it is. You are the only one in the world I've known all my life. You're the only one I know who loves me. Nobody else could possibly love me, and you do. Please, 'Lock, stay alive because I need you and I love you."_ _ _

___Sherlock shook his head, slipping the pads of his fingers past his lips as his distress grew._ _ _

___"I'm k-killing you. You're n-not able to keep up w-with your work. You don't n-need me, never have. I am a b-burden. At least before...before I could h-help from time to time. Now...now I will constantly tax your reserves, I will be...it w-will grow old v-very fast, taking c-care of me."_ _ _

___He grit his teeth as he said the words, knowing that he was going to have to be cared for if he was going to survive, and despising that entirely._ _ _

___"Y-you will grow to resent m-me. It is a m-matter of time before you no longer l-love me as you do now."_ _ _

___Mycroft closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Everything he had said to his baby brother was true, and difficult to say, and Sherlock just brushed it off. It really, _really_ should not hurt. _ _ _

___"I love you. I won't resent you. Sherlock, I went through years of you actively pushing me away, calling me your arch enemy, and avoiding me. You love me now. I won't give that up."_ _ _

___Sherlock gripped at his brother and dropped his hand away from his mouth to press his face deeper against Mycroft's chest._ _ _

___"I am s-sorry I was s-such a child. You've o-only ever...I...I am sorry, My, I a-always loved...I h-hated that I- she w-was always so proud of you and I was s-so disappointing and-" he pulled at Mycroft's shirt, his heart settling slightly as Mycroft assured that he'd still love him._ _ _

___It was something. His brother had bent hell to find him and pull him back from Moran, perhaps this could be true as well._ _ _

___"M-maybe I...I can..." he closed his eyes and slipped through his chaotic mind, struggling to find anything he could offer and coming up short. He whimpered pathetically in defeat after several quiet moments._ _ _

___"I'll...th-think of some way to earn...m-maybe I can...can vet your house staff or..." but no, there were people adept at doing such work. There was nothing Mycroft needed beyond the legwork Sherlock had historically done for him, and now even that had gone._ _ _

___"Oh," he whispered, shaking his head and weeping quietly against Mycroft's shirt, "I c-can...s-something, surely...m-maybe..."_ _ _

___John’s voice suddenly and unexpectedly whispered through his mind._ _ _

____Brilliant. That's...incredible, that's brilliant is what that is._ _ _ _

___Sherlock looked up at his brother, hopeful._ _ _

___"I can be y-your John? You can tell m-me of your day and I c-can tell you where you've been clever. I...or you can...I can be your skull and you c-can talk at me...maybe...I used to be m-more clever when I could think aloud...I...I could be l-like John?"_ _ _

___Mycroft hadn't meant to send Sherlock into such a tailspin._ _ _

___"No, 'Lock, no. I don't need a use for you. I will keep you around because I love you."_ _ _

___Did that make Sherlock his John? Would he just sit with him and tell him about his day? What else would there be to do other than talk?_ _ _

___"But...If you want, I'll come home and we can talk together. I'll love you for as long as I'm alive and we can be old and irritable together."_ _ _

___Sherlock's heart sank as he watched his brother turn down the one and only thing Sherlock could find purpose in. It was as plain as day that Mycroft had not considered how the day-in and day-out of life with Sherlock would be. _If you want, I'll come home and we can talk together.__ _ _

___He meant to hand Sherlock to his staff when he was no longer a screaming mess. That’s what that meant. Sherlock would live with Mycroft in the same way Sherlock had lived with Mrs. Hudson. A shared roof and occasional visit._ _ _

___He brought his fingers to his lips again, lightly biting down on the edges of his fingertips. He looked away as his heart squeezed and he once again returned to the mental image of himself in a sodding chair, staring out the window as the hours slipped by and sank him further into madness._ _ _

___"I...n-no it was foolish of me to...to offer something s-so...that w-was foolish. I'll not...your days will be q-quite full enough."_ _ _

___Mycroft swore at himself at the broken little look on Sherlock's face and immediately corrected himself._ _ _

___"No, 'Lock, I can work from home. I can stay with you and work on my laptop while we talk and play games. We can play deduction."_ _ _

___It was a kindness that Mycroft was entertaining him so. "You are th-the government, My. I c-could hardly find you in one place even on holidays," it would be impossible for Mycroft to remain home with him._ _ _

___"You'd go m-mad with boredom. I'd- I w-will keep out of your way and w-we will...will meet when your schedule a-allows for it. I...I'll...m-maybe I'll find a bird or..." it was _hateful_. _ _ _

____Jesus fuck, Sherlock, did you think you could_ be _something? Whore yourself out, that will be productive. Whole crowd of folks that like 'em beat to six already. You’d make a fortune on your back.__ _ _

___He shivered hard against Mycroft, clapping a hand over his ear. What was he thinking anyhow? He simply needed to be released, and then he'd put himself down._ _ _

___"I kn-know this is...th-that you hate this s-sort of thing. I want you to kn-know that I'm gr-grateful for your h-help...for you s-saving me."_ _ _

___No, _no_ , Mycroft couldn't do this. _ _ _

___It was one thing when Sherlock was panicking and depressed, but this calm, resolute, dejected acceptance was worse. Mycroft knew he likely couldn't stay at home all the time, or even most once he was working regularly. And Christ, what if he had to go overseas?_ _ _

___"'Lock...Listen. Listen now. I don't know exactly what the future holds, but whatever it is, I will make it pleasant for you or I will not leave your side. If I return to work, it will be because you no longer need me."_ _ _

___Sherlock shook his head. "Y-you left m-me here the first h-hour I arrived. Work n-needed you."_ _ _

___He'd been terrified, utterly, horrifically terrified even when Mycroft had been there, and then he'd lost his mind not long after being left alone. There was a mental crack that had formed under the sheer weight of heart-stopping terror at being left._ _ _

___"The w-work always comes f-first, remember? Th-that's how we operate. I know where I stand, My. You've a-already gone above and beyond. I know...I kn-know m-my place. I'll...I'll be..." what? be _fine_? Hardly. There was nothing for it. He should have died. It would have made everyone's life easier. "Thank you f-for making it s-so John always has G-Greg. Th-that's what matters." _ _ _

___Jesus, they were going in circles._ _ _

___"No, Sherlock. No. We can't just argue about this. I won't leave you until you are ready for it. Do you need me to make it a legally binding document? What can I do to make you believe me?"_ _ _

___Sherlock sucked at his fingertips and closed his eyes, allowing himself a few minutes to simply listen to Mycroft's heart beating, trying to soothe himself down. Everything felt like a lie, like a platitude to get him to be quiet, but there was also an edge of desperation to Mycroft's tone that made him want to believe. The petulant kid brother in him wanted to call Mycroft on his bluff, but his brother's intentions were so obviously pure that he did not wish to goad him at the moment._ _ _

___"Y-you're always gone when I w-wake up. Will you n-need to leave again t-today? I'm...I want to sleep. Will...will you be back tonight or...or will I s-see you tomorrow? Can you write..." he shook his head, no, Mycroft couldn't write anything that Sherlock could read._ _ _

___"W-will you tell them when...when you'll come back so th-they can tell me? It...it's hard not to p-panic when you're not here. Maybe knowing...m-maybe that will help, if they can t-tell me how long."_ _ _

___Mycroft noted the little gesture with Sherlock's hand and remembered that last time it had meant he was dying for water._ _ _

___"I'll..Yes, I'll tell you when I'll be here. Tonight I can stay the night, but if you would like me to be here tomorrow it would be better if I had my laptop brought here. Are you thirsty?"_ _ _

___The question was rather abrupt, but Sherlock hadn't asked for water for a long time._ _ _

___Sherlock nodded slowly, as though nervous to answer the question. He'd been parched since he'd woken up, but he'd not thought to ask for water._ _ _

___"I...it's v-very frightening wh-when you're not here. If...c-can you st-stay tomorrow? I h-hate when you're g-gone. They...I hate when...wh-when..." he shook his head, tears clinging to his lashes before falling. Already he was begging, and had Mycroft not just promised he'd not leave unless Sherlock was ready? He'd believed him, and now he was pleading with him to stay. Sherlock closed his eyes at the ache of it._ _ _

____I don't like the dark!_ _ _ _

____You won't go back in the dark, I promise._ _ _ _

___He whimpered at the reminder that comfort was only for the moment, it wasn't something that Sherlock would be allowed to have for the long-term. There was no Greg to curl up with, no person to be there when Moran began to torture him._ _ _

___"It w-will help to know wh-when you'll be b-back."_ _ _

___"Yes, Sherlock. I'll stay tomorrow. What will be easiest is if I can work while you get some rest. You don't have to sleep if you don't want to, but you should at least have some time off. I'll stay here and work next to you in the bed."_ _ _

___Mycroft petted Sherlock's hair absently as he spoke. "I will always tell you exactly what time I intend on coming back. We'll get you a clock and I'll mark it before I go."_ _ _

___Sherlock closed his eyes and curled his fingers back up to his lips, lightly sucking on the ends of his fingers. Mycroft was still going to leave him. He was still going to be in the dark. Moran was still going to toy with him._ _ _

___He was going to kill himself at the first possible opportunity. There was no way around it._ _ _

___"O-Okay," he breathed around his fingers, starting to gently rock himself in an effort to calm his racing heart. He'd hoped that perhaps Mycroft would find a way to stop leaving him._ _ _

___"M-Mark the...the clock. O-Okay."_ _ _

____Next we'll do it for a minute, can you last that long?_ _ _ _

___He shuddered and sucked harder at his fingers, feeling much like a child and deeply, deeply alone._ _ _

___Mycroft gently placed his hands on Sherlock's shoulders and tried to look him in the eyes._ _ _

___"Sherlock, I'll always come back for you. I just need to go home to get my laptop. I'll...I'll send in a letter saying I need to take a leave of absence. I'll stay with you permanently, no work, no distractions."_ _ _

___Sherlock's eyes shot open and he whimpered in open and _overwhelming_ relief. If his brother meant that he would finally stop leaving him, much of the worst distress would be eased. He was ashamed to need his brother constantly at his side, but it could not be helped. _ _ _

___"You...y-you won't leave? I..." he grabbed desperately at his brother, wrapping him in as much of an embrace as he could manage, sobbing against Mycroft's chest._ _ _

___"Thank you," he cried into the material of Mycroft's shirt, feeling as though the weight of the world had been lifted off him, his fingers blanching in an effort to keep his grip._ _ _

___"I'm s-sorry I kn-know the....the work is e-everything but-" he shook his head, scrambling to get closer, terrified this would be taken away, "thank you."_ _ _

___That was it, then. Mycroft would simply have to end it now. He couldn't juggle both, and to choose work over his own brother would surely be the death of him._ _ _

___"I'll stay. I'm writing them the letter tonight. They'll understand, and have me back whenever I wish."_ _ _

___Sherlock did not want to think outside of the promise of being cared for, of not being left alone with Moran._ _ _

___"I'll do b-better, I'll...I'll t-try to...n-not be like this I'll...please don't l-leave, I'm s-sorry I- it's intolerable h-here without you."_ _ _

___Mycroft was deeply distraught. He didn't want Sherlock always trying to please him. It made him feel sick, like he was one of the psychopaths who had needed to be begged to in order to treat a person decently._ _ _

___"Alright. I'll stay. I don't need you to do anything differently. I'll stay no matter what."_ _ _

___Sherlock nodded and, sensing that he'd upset his brother, slowly eased his hold. Perhaps he was being overly needy. Well, of course he was being overly needy. Mycroft hated to be touched._ _ _

___"Okay," he whispered, putting his fingers back to his lips and sucking lightly on the tips as he drew away, trying to give Mycroft his space. His brother had slaved his entire life to reach his position, and he was handing it over for Sherlock's benefit._ _ _

___The debt was massive._ _ _

___"Y-You...I'm sorry, you...you don't h-have to do this...I am a g-grown man I sh-should..." he shut his eyes and forced himself onward, constantly edging back from Mycroft, "y-you can wait...maybe I'll...I...I h-have to learn to d-do this alone and...y-your career...I...it's y-your life."_ _ _

___Mycroft's career was his life. He was the best at what he did. He had the strings of many puppets in his hand and had worked tirelessly for the position._ _ _

___But this was his brother._ _ _

___"Do you really think I would choose work over helping you? You were my life before, Sherlock. You will be my life again. We were close before I went to Uni. It can be like that again."_ _ _

___Sherlock closed his eyes, resting against his brother and breathing roughly._ _ _

___"I...your w-work..." he shook his head and tried to allow himself to relax, overwhelmed._ _ _

___John was as settled as Sherlock could get him, surely. He could think of nothing else to help the man other than keeping far, far away. Greg had him. Greg had given up his career, but he seemed happy to do so. He loved John as Sherlock did. It was clear as day. Greg could make a life with John._ _ _

____He has already done. They live together. John is happy._ _ _ _

___Mycroft, however, would never be fulfilled with his life as Sherlock's caretaker. He would grow to resent him, sooner rather than later. "I'm not w-worth your work. I...I've been...always so s-selfish," Moriarty’s words bled through his mind as he spoke._ _ _

____You won't keep away, Sherlock, you're selfish like that. You're selfish right now. Look at him, he yearns for death and you are denying him._ _ _ _

___"I...if-f you mark the cl-clock I'll...I'll be okay. I...l-like you said I...b-better with t-time. I have to l-learn."_ _ _

___Mycroft wasn't sure if he actually would be able to take care of Sherlock for the rest of his life without going insane._ _ _

___"How about this? Six months I'll take off to stay with you, and if you aren't living with John and Greg by that point, I'll quit entirely. I won't leave you bored and alone in my house. I just won't."_ _ _

___Sherlock was rapidly losing his strength, the panic from earlier and his struggle to sit up having taken it out of him._ _ _

___"Just...d-don't resent me. If-f you are going to resent me...d-don't stop working. I have t-to sleep."_ _ _

___He drew his fingers to his lips, mouth like sandpaper, sick with the heavy taste of blood as he closed his eyes and leaned against Mycroft._ _ _

___"If I ever find myself resenting you, I'll go back to work. I promise. I'll never hate you. Get some sleep. Or, if you want, you can have a bit of water first." Mycroft wanted to be as calming and helpful as possible._ _ _

___Sherlock nodded for the water, whimpering softly in his desperation for it, but managed to fall off asleep before any was brought to him. He still had his fingers at his bloodied lips as he went lax against his brother._ _ _

___Miller had been watching from a distance, waiting a few minutes after Sherlock fell asleep before speaking._ _ _

___"We should change out the bedding and get him cleaned up before he wakes. That was a rather explosive reaction."_ _ _

___Mycroft slowly placed Sherlock down in the bed and removed the stained covers. "Yes, lets clean him up. That was...I've no choice now but to resign, even if it's only temporarily."  
\---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------_ _ _

___John had abruptly fallen asleep, and awoke with less confusion but far more self hatred. He had dropped on Greg's chest, and woke to find himself in the same position._ _ _

___"Greg?" John looked up and gave him a pleading look. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to...I just..."_ _ _

___Did sleeping count as leaving?_ _ _

___"Just asleep, not gone, I was tired. I'm sorry."_ _ _

___Greg woke up slowly and blinked down at John, giving him a soft smile and running his palm gently over John's hair, smoothing it down._ _ _

___"I'm glad you slept. I wouldn't expect you to stay awake after...I'm glad you slept. How are you feeling?"_ _ _

___He was still thrown hard from days on end in panic over John's withdrawn state, but he didn't want to exacerbate it._ _ _

___"Lousey," John responded and pulled a handful of Greg's shirt up to cover his face. "I want you to forgive me. Please, forgive me. I just need you to tell me you forgive me."_ _ _

___Air whistled through Greg's teeth as he drew in a sharp breath, startled by that._ _ _

___"I- John there isn't anything to forgive! If..." _Jesus_. He dragged a hand over his face and then wrapped his arms tight around John, "if you need me to say it, then I forgive you, John, but really there isn't anything to forgive." _ _ _

___Already his gut began to twist, nerves rattled with the potential of losing him again._ _ _

___"Please...it's okay. You didn't do anything to hurt me intentionally. I'll be fine, I've just got to get over myself."_ _ _

___John held Greg's shirt just under his nose where he could smell it and closed his eyes._ _ _

___"I never meant to hurt you. I know you aren't mad at me, but I know it hurt you anyway. I just needed to hear it so I could forgive myself."_ _ _

___John crossed his arms over his chest and chewed the inside of his cheek. Forgiving himself seemed out of the question._ _ _

___"I'll be good today. I'll eat and drink and...and what were the other things? Oh, I'll wash myself and I'll speak clearly and all that."_ _ _

___Greg despised this to his core. He kept his arms tight around John and closed his own eyes, loathing that John was promising to be fucking _good_. They'd worked so hard to get past all of it. _ _ _

___"You don't have to do that, John," he whispered, only wanting to settle John, to make him smile and get him back to just occupying the same house as him. Why the hell had he confided in John? _Because you are fucking weak, Greg, that's why.__ _ _

___He shifted and fought against the swelling in his throat. "You...whatever you want to do today, you don't...you don't have to be good."_ _ _

___The phrase conflicted with everything that John knew to be true and he let out a nervous laugh._ _ _

___"Ah...I know you say that...I just... It's better if I do what is good. I'll...I've got to go to the lav, and then I'll have some tea or...what do you want me to do? I don't think I can help cook."_ _ _

___Hot metal was just a bit too much for him._ _ _

___Greg helped John sit up. "I'll make you tea and then...it's been a long time since you've sat out with the birds. Let's try that, okay? Bit of tea and that's all."_ _ _

___He spoke in something of a detached, dejected tone. He cleared his throat and tried to sound a bit more encouraging._ _ _

___"It's going to rain later tonight, but the morning should be...should be okay outside. Is...does that sound okay?"_ _ _

___"Yeah...I want to see the birds, if it won't make you sad. You said it made you sad because you think you're messing up and I didn't mess up with the bird. But the bird makes me happy, and since you said you like that, I think I'll go see it again," John got up then and shuffled off to the lav. It was clear that his choices were still being made by his desire to please Greg, but he was taking his own happiness into consideration, and that was a step in the right direction._ _ _

___Greg got up as John left, shuffling into the kitchen and starting tea for the both of them. He folded his arm and rest his head down, giving over to defeat for a moment, lashes heavy and damp when the kettle screamed._ _ _

___With John's tea sweetened and cooled, a straw on the saucer, he walked right outside and set them up there, waiting for John to join him._ _ _

___John came out and sat down on the couch next to Greg. The air seemed heavy and tight, though John couldn't tell why. He took the tea and went about his routine of checking the temperature._ _ _

___"Thank you," he said softly and kept his eyes down._ _ _

___Greg nodded and rest his arm on the back of the bench, splaying his hand on John's back gently. "You...You know I love you, yeah? I...I do love you."_ _ _

___John looked up at Greg and gave a tiny smile. "Yeah, I know. And I will get better at this. It'll get better. I won't let that happen again. It hurt. I don't even know what happened, but I feel..." John put his cup down and dropped his head into his hands._ _ _

___"God, Greg, I feel awful."_ _ _

___Greg pulled John against his chest, sliding his fingers through John's hair. "I'm sorry you feel bad. I am. It's...it's going to be alright, John. You and I...we're okay, yeah? We're okay and soon enough we'll have you feeling much better. I got ahead of myself, and that's my fault, not yours. I'm...I'm not going anywhere no matter what, John, not while you need me."_ _ _

___John nuzzled against Greg and took deep breathes. "I want you to be able to confide in me, but you can't. You can't talk to me like I'm a normal person. That's all I want now. I want to be strong enough for you."_ _ _

___Greg closed his eyes as John spoke, guilt slicing through his gut at John's unexpected words. He ground down on the flesh between his molars until he was nearly breaking the skin. What the fuck was he supposed to say to that?_ _ _

___"John...mate...anyone who...you are strong, it's...I spoke to you about things that really affect you and it was...that's not your fault. I...it's not your fault, John, you don't need to feel badly about it. We...let's just focus on getting you feeling better, yeah?"_ _ _

___John ignored Greg's request, though not intentionally, and his hands curled into weak fists to protect his fingers. "I'm not strong enough to be a good friend to you, but I will be. I promise you that, Greg. Let's have tea. I'll try and be normal."_ _ _

___Greg listened to John and watched him carefully, feeling burned which again, was entirely unfair when next to John Watson. He eased back and gave John his space, having noticed the protective way that he shielded his fingers. It hurt to see, harkening back to a time when John was afraid of physical pain from Greg._ _ _

___"Okay, John," he breathed, lost on what to do, nearly paralyzed with indecision. Every step he made backfired._ _ _

___So he reached for his own tea and took a sip, ignoring the way it tasted of ash in his mouth, holding his tongue and allowing John to be as he was going to._ _ _

___John had to do his routine with the spoon eight times before he was able to drink. Each time he was about to bring the spoon to his lips, he would panic minutely and put it back down. A was frustrated with himself for his own stupidity and when he finally was able to take a sip he drank as quickly as his scarred mind would allow._ _ _

___John was acutely aware that something was wrong with his mind, and the knowledge weighed heavily on him._ _ _

___"I'll be alright again, won't I? I mean, I was alright a few days ago."_ _ _

___Greg nodded, though he truly had no idea. "I...you felt trapped and retreated. I think this is just...you're protecting yourself. It will fade," who the fuck knew if that was true or not?_ _ _

___Greg leaned back and closed his eyes. _I'm sorry, Sherlock_. He took the next few minutes to put it into his head then and there that they'd lost him. Greg had failed to keep hold of both of them, had severely damaged John with his efforts to do so, and made the difficult choice to cut him out. That was the end of it. If Mycroft called for help again, Greg would turn him down. He would never do this to John again._ _ _

___"It's...I hope you know I'd never hurt you. Once you feel safe with me again...trust me again, it will pass."_ _ _

___John looked up at Greg with surprise and confusion._ _ _

___"Once I trust you again?"_ _ _

___John shook his head and put his hand on Greg's shoulder. "Oh, love, I trust you. I just don't trust myself. I shut down because I thought I had hurt you... Which in the end only hurt you more. I'm not right at the moment. My mind feels bad. It hurts. But I love you, and I trust you."_ _ _

___Greg nodded and turned to look at John for a moment before looking down at the tea. They were not at square one, but they were not far from it, either._ _ _

___"Your mind is okay, it's just protecting itself. That's alright, you'll...you'll remember that you're safe here and...and we don't have to worry about anything else, John. Nothing else. Just you and me and that's it, okay?"_ _ _

___John whimpered and his face fell._ _ _

___All that progress he had made towards being clear, towards being happy, had all been for this. For a set back. For fear that just came right back no matter what he did. "Am I drowning? Am I going to just run out of energy to fix the setbacks?"_ _ _

___Panic tore across Greg's chest and he reached out, pulling John to him, one hand splayed across the side of John's head and the other wrapped tight around his back._ _ _

___" _No_ ," he said forcefully, shaking his head, clutching John to him. _ _ _

___"No, you are not drowning. I would never let you drown. We...there are not going to be setbacks like this anymore. I'm going to stop screwing up. This one was on me, John. It was on me and I'm not going to let it happen again. All you have to do is work on the tea, and feed the birds, and watch telly with me. That's it. Nothing more. I won't let you drown."_ _ _

___"Because-" John's breath hitched and he leaned heavily on Greg._ _ _

___"Because it's like I've got to fight for it every second. If I don't fight to stay clear, my mind just slips away. Sometimes it does it even when I'm fighting! I want to be able to think right, but it's so hard. It would be so easy to just give up and be like a child for the rest of my life."_ _ _

___John absently trailed his fingers over Greg's chest as he spoke._ _ _

___"I'm not going to, though. I've got to fight. But Greg, I get so tired."_ _ _

___Greg held John to his chest and began to rock him gently. "Then rest, you can just rest. We'll try again tomorrow for a bit, and a bit more the next day. Just rest. I'll...I've got you."_ _ _

___He was actively bloodying the inside of his mouth at that point out of bitter anger with himself while deeply saddened for John._ _ _

___"I'll keep you safe. I don't want you worn down."_ _ _

___John abandoned his tea, which was partially finished anyway, and crawled more fully into Greg's lap. "Okay. I'll do that." With a shuddering sigh he looked up and pressed a kiss to Greg's cheek._ _ _

___"Are you sure I'm not a terrible burden to you?"_ _ _

___Greg folded his arms around John, shifting so that John had more space to get comfortable, bundling him to his chest warmly._ _ _

___"You are not a terrible burden to me, John. You've your own terrible burdens, and it's my privilege to help you carry them."_ _ _

___He pressed his lips down to the crown of John's head, starting to rock the little bench under them, savoring the feel of the smooth glide. His heart ached as though pierced, and his lungs were not keen on working, but he was going to get them through this. Somehow, he was going to get them through this._ _ _

___"I want you to rest, and in a little while, we are going to eat, okay?"_ _ _

___John closed his eyes and let his frayed nerves be calmed by the rocking._ _ _

___"Victims of shock rock themselves. Or trauma. I've seen it. They rock themselves or say something over and over or play with something in their hands. I've seen if. Now I do it."_ _ _

___He had always wondered what was appealing about rocking, but now he couldn't deny that it soothed something deep inside him._ _ _

___Greg nodded, aware of that. "Stimming is very soothing in times of trauma," he agreed, pleased that John was recalling this._ _ _

___"Repetition is soothing to overly taxed nerves. It's perfectly normal for the situation." He slid his hands gently along John's back and through his hair, doing what he could to settle John down._ _ _

___John could track the rhythm, and his mind calmed noticeably as they went on. Silence stretched out as John became pensive, though not in the dangerous, comatose way of before. When he finally spoke nearly twenty minutes later, his voice was calmer and sounded almost sleepy._ _ _

___"I'm glad I have you, Greg. I've decided that no matter what happens, I want you to tell me what my mind is doing, and if I'm speaking clearly. Sometimes I can't tell."_ _ _

___Greg drew in a deep, audible breath through his nose, watching the storm clouds slowly rolling in. He swept his fingers through John's hair and shook his head.  
"I will tell you what your mind is doing, and when you are speaking clearly, when it's an appropriate time. Sometimes you can't hear it, and that's okay. I need you to leave it to my discretion when that happens, alright? I'm not doing this to you anymore. Not ever again." _ _ _

___He spoke slow and deep, keeping the rhythm of their rocking steady._ _ _

___John wanted to know what his mind was doing all the time, but figured that was about as good as he was going to get._ _ _

___"Okay. That makes sense. Thank you. I didn't mean to do this. It was... was it the thing about Sherlock? Was that it? I can't remember. Or you said... yeah, but that wasn't real. You can tell me things, but sometimes I don't hear them right."_ _ _

___Greg immediately steered the conversation away from Sherlock. Later that day, he'd pull the cd of Sherlock's music and ensure he removed every trace of him from the flat._ _ _

___"It was you getting overwhelmed by something stupid that I said, and it's not going to happen again. I love you, and I want you here with me. That's all there is to it. I will be as forward with you as I can, John, I promise to tell you what your mind is doing, so long as you are not exhausted."_ _ _

___John hummed and ran his fingers through Greg's hair. "You always take care of me. You always know what to do." John was constantly grateful with Greg's care and affection, and he couldn't fathom how he had been so lucky. Nobody had ever taken care of him like this since he was a small child, and while it might have hurt his pride, if he had one intact enough to hurt, he knew that he needed the love to heal._ _ _

___"You're a great man, Greg."_ _ _

___Greg forced himself to shutter off from John's affection, giving him a small smile but sternly refraining from leaning into John's touch. John meant pain in the end. He could not allow himself to be so comfortable again. That’s what had caused John so much harm, and Greg was resolved not to do it again._ _ _

___The sky rumbled overhead and quite abruptly, gentle, warm drops of rain began to slowly fall from the sky. Greg watched John very closely, curious to see how he'd react to the natural phenomenon of it._ _ _

___John continued to run his fingers idly through Greg's hair until he noticed the rain. He couldn't be damned about storms usually, but this was water, and it was going to be very near him. "Uhm, Greg?" John asked just a bit nervously._ _ _

___"Can we go into your room?"_ _ _

___Greg tipped his face up, looking at the sky, flinching reflexively as a drop landed on his cheek. He looked back down to John, trailing his fingers through his hair. "Rain is different, yeah? Look," he nodded at the hopping little birds on the flowerbox, "they are not sheltering. Just a bit of downfall today. Will you try for me?"_ _ _

___John had gone very stiff as the drops fell around them, and jumped when one landed on his arm. He immediately brushed it off and pressed his hand over where it had fallen, waiting for the pain, the burning that always came when water was sprinkled on him._ _ _

___"I don't like it," John whimpered but kept his hold on Greg. He pressed himself more tightly against the man's chest and tried to hide from the inevitable drop that would be scalding instead of warm.  
"Here," Greg said gently, shifting them so that nothing would fall on John's head or body, half of the bench exposed to the open air and half covered so long as it did not get windy, "look, nothing will fall on you like this. Just put your hand out like me, you..here, like this," he said calmly as he took John's hand in his, turning John's fingers so that they were palm up, cradling the back of John's hand in his own and extending their arms to where the rain would occasionally land on John's fingers. _ _ _

___"It's alright, look at the birds. It doesn't hurt."_ _ _

___John struggled against his mind, but already he was in a far different sort of mental state. He had skipped entirely the frame of mind that told him he would not be hurt, to fight the fear, and to believe Greg, and was now in the state that told him this was going to hurt, but he was going to man up and do it anyway because Greg had asked. John whimpered and held his shaking hand out to be burned. A drop landed on him and he cried out, but did not retract his hand._ _ _

___"I d-don't like it," he whimpered to Greg, "I don't want it."_ _ _

___Greg pulled their hands back, cradling John's palm against his chest and sweeping his thumb over the drop of water there, rubbing the moisture into John's skin._ _ _

___"Look, John," he said calmly, showing John his hand, "no pain, no burn. Feel," he whispered before gently blowing over the very small, damp area, "it's good."_ _ _

___John retracted his hand like it was on a bungee cord as soon as he was given permission. "Thank you, thank you," he muttered and rocked himself slightly._ _ _

___It was true that there were no burns, but that meant very little. "Not this time, then. Next time. It will burn next time as soon as I don't expect it. I'll get used to it and then it will suddenly burn. Can't trust it. Can't trust it."_ _ _

___Greg decided to nip that right in the bud. "You believe I'll burn you," he stated flatly. He knew where John's head was, and was doing his best to shock him out of it, "you believe then, that I would have done all of this with you, only to hold you down and burn you."_ _ _

___John looked horrified. His eyes flew to Greg's and he shook his head._ _ _

___"No! You wouldn't... You know I don't like being held down, I-" he grabbed onto Greg's shirt and his face contorted with confusion and self-inflicted pain._ _ _

___"Y-You wouldn't d-do those things. You promise you wouldn't."_ _ _

___Greg held his own hand out and caught another raindrop in his palm, speaking to John quietly._ _ _

___"No, I wouldn't. I wouldn't ever do that to you because I love you, and I value you, and my job is to protect you and show you what is safe."_ _ _

___He leaned down and brushed his lips over John's temple before taking John's hand again and very gently rubbing the small drop of water from the sky over the backs of John's knuckles._ _ _

___"This is Greg, showing you rain. That's all this is."_ _ _

___John wanted to try. If Greg was so safe with the rain, there must be a reason._ _ _

___He could remember drops of water burning his skin, and tried to recall why that wouldn't apply here._ _ _

____Moriarty is gone._ _ _ _

____Moran is gone._ _ _ _

____We were always inside when the drops hurt._ _ _ _

____Greg is here._ _ _ _

____Greg can touch the rain._ _ _ _

___John put his hand on Greg's and leaned away from the rain. "Will you help me? It's still...I'm still not alright with it."_ _ _

___Greg nodded, very loosely holding John's hand in his. He brought John's fingers to his lips and gently pressed a kiss to the pads of his pointer and index._ _ _

___"I love you," he whispered as he laced their fingers together._ _ _

___"When you are ready, you keep hold of my hand and stretch yours to the rain, and when you need to draw back in, then draw back in. I'm right here with you. It's warm, it will not hurt you."_ _ _

___John took a few minutes to collect himself, then very slowly reached out his hand. Each drop seemed to sting despite the pleasant temperature and John flinched heavily with each drop._ _ _

___"R-Rain can't be boiling," he stated in a shaky voice. "It w-would have evaporated and the c-clouds are high where it's c-cold so it c-can't be hot."_ _ _

___Greg ran his hand gently over John's back as John subjected himself to the rain, letting John finish speaking before reached out and pulled John's hand back in the shelter. "On my hand now," he whispered, holding his dry palm out for John to dampen with his rain-slicked fingers._ _ _

___"You wouldn't hurt me, I trust you."_ _ _

___John's hand was dripping with rain water and he held it as if the warm drops might suddenly turn scalding at any time. If he touched Greg with them, and it hurt, he'd never forgive himself. But Greg trusted him, and he slowly put his fingers on Greg's palm._ _ _

___"This is stressful. I don't like this."_ _ _

___Greg laced their dry and dripping hands together, leaning in and pressing a soft kiss to John's cheek. "Let's go inside and I'll massage your hands while we watch telly," he said gently, allowing their wet hands to remain that way. He gathered John to him and simply stood up, carrying him inside the flat and shutting the door behind him._ _ _

___He put John down on the sofa in his lap, clicked on the telly, and with the aid of the slick rain, began to gently work over the hand that had been held out into the rain.  
John wanted to get the water off his hand _immediately_ , but Greg was massaging him and he didn't dare pull away. In the end, the rain had not hurt him, and he began to feel foolish. "I'm sorry I was afraid," he whispered, "I'll be stronger soon."_ _ _

___Greg had his attention to the telly, well practiced now on where and how to touch John. He hummed and nodded, not looking down, casual as he could be as he worked into the little knots that had formed while John had been locked in his head._ _ _

___"You will," he agreed, shifting to make sure John was comfortable._ _ _


	29. Chapter 29

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This one was tough to write.

Internally, a heavy brick of ice had settled against his ribs. He'd not felt so isolated in...ever. Not ever. He was doing his best to numb himself out, keep from feeling any of it. 

John wanted to do something for Greg that went beyond his own improvement, but couldn't think of a thing. Before, if he wanted to do something for the man, he'd take him out and buy him a few rounds. That was clearly not an option anymore. John watched Greg's hands as they worked and practiced his words for a full five minutes in his mind before he spoke, just to be sure he sounded like an adult. 

"Greg, you're always doing nice things for me, like making tea, or helping with my hands. I know you've said that there's nothing, but I was wondering if there's anything like that I can do for you."

Greg's hands paused on John's and he shoved down the panic that instantly bubbled up at the question. John was constantly trapping him in situations where there was no answer. If he responded with a _no_ , he'd hurt John's efforts. If he asked anything of him, he'd tip him into panic. He resumed his work on the tense musculature under his still-damp fingers as his mind raced, unaware that he was holding his breath. 

_Think, Greg._

His mind touched on Sherlock before he banished that away, and then to things John could do for himself that would have the secondary result of helping Greg, but that was no good either. He thought to any of his own physical ills, but that would likely frustrate John if he could not remember how to help. John didn't want to be in the kitchen or around water, so cooking or making him a cuppa was out. 

"I.." the time after John's question dragged out, making him anxious to find a solution and move on. He dragged in a breath when he realized he'd been holding his, feeling like a complete idiot. "I...I don't know, John. Did...did you have something in mind?" 

It was a weak cop-out, but he was watching stars crack along his vision and was nearly faint with the pressure of the question. 

John put his head down a bit and his face twisted a bit. He hadn't prepared an actual suggestion, just an adult way to say he would do what Greg had asked. It caught him off guard, as he now needed to form an articulate response without having time to practice it. 

"I...oh, uhm..." John looked around the room. "I could clean...or...I could do this," he gestured down at Greg's hands. "I could probably give you a massage too. It helps a lot. My hands aren't very strong, but I could get used to it. I'd get stronger. And...And you don't seem to mind me touching you, so it can't be that bad. It might help you."

Greg looked down at their hands and stopped moving his own. 

"Okay John, yeah," he said quietly, letting John go. That seemed harmless enough, surely. He didn't see how he could tip John into panic that way. He gently placed his own hand in John's, speaking softly. 

"I enjoy when you touch me. It's far more than not minding, it's...it's very nice."

John smiled happily and took Greg's hand. "I'm glad I can help you. I like helping you." John started on Greg's fingers and worked in. When he found a tight muscle, he worked on it, starting on either end gently and working towards the middle. John had given massages before, in fact, it was one of the reasons he'd been able to keep a few girlfriends even when they were sick and tired of him running off after his flatmate. 

Greg hummed and let his head rest back against the sofa, relaxing as John began to work a form of magic in his hand that he'd not known to exist before. 

"You're brilliant, John," he whispered after a few minutes time, before he remembered that he couldn't do this. 

He allowed John to keep at his hand, but he bolstered back up the walls he'd hastily set in place as the urge grew to pull John into a hug and try to seek out his friend hiding inside the damage. 

_That's not for you anymore_ , he admonished himself, biting down on his cheek by way of punishing the want for companionship. He'd eventually learn, and he was determined not to ever risk John again by seeking it out. 

John was oblivious to Greg's struggle as he worked up to his wrist and forearm. He was concentrating fully in an effort to make this _perfect_. So important was this to John that he was able to easily ignore the slight burning in his hands that came from lack of use. Greg's forearms were tight, a signal that generally told someone was trying to keep control of something. Stress would be held in the shoulders, and John was sure those would be tight as well. John reached Greg's upper arm and stopped hesitantly. 

"Can I keep going?" 

As far as Greg was concerned, John could pick up a bat and bloody him until his heart stopped. There wasn't a thing in the world Greg could think of that he wouldn't allow John to do to him. He deserved violence from John, and the kindness was killing him. 

"Yeah, John, of course. Anything you like," he said carefully, deeply enjoying the feel of being touched and rebelling against his inclination to give over to it. 

John worked to Greg's shoulders and clicked his tongue. 

"You're really tense, Greg. Your traps are like piano strings." John started very gently near the base of his shoulders where they wouldn't be too tight and continued up. 

"I'll do this more often. It should help."

Greg closed his eyes and leaned forward, elbows on his knees, glad John was at his back and unable to see him. He carded his hands into his hair above his temples and held on, eyes burning as he stared at the hardwood under his feet. John's hands felt amazing, and his chest squeezed each time he had renewed focus on how careful John was being, how much bloody consideration he was putting into it. The kindness was destroying Greg’s barriers. He’d not been cared for _himself_ in so long it made him immediately emotional, which he very much did not want to show John. Unable to fight back the overwhelming burn of tears, he searched desperately for a distraction. 

When a sob caught in his ribs, he cleared his throat and excused himself. 

"One second, John, just n-need to run to the men's. Right back, I promise." He turned and pressed a kiss to John's temple before dashing off, hardly getting the door closed behind him before breaking down hard, nearly gagging with the force of it. He threw the taps open at the sink so that John could not hear him, and leaned heavily against the sink as he vented his newly-released grief, overwhelmed at the flood of it. 

 

_What have I done this time?_

"Greg, I- Please, I-" John reached out to him as he rushed away and his face fell. 

John grit his teeth and punched the cushion on the couch. "Stupid. Stupid. I can't fucking-" John stood up and paced with his hands in his hair. He wanted to knock things over, break everything and _scream_ , but he limited himself to hurling the pillow at a blank spot on the wall. 

Tears stung his eyes and he dropped to his knees right where he stood and wept. How would he make it up this time? What had he even _done_?

Greg was oblivious to John’s distress. He needed a full five minutes to settle back down, carefully washing his face as he tried to blot away the redness from tears. He turned off the taps and patted his face with a towel, rounding his shoulders and nodding to himself before he dared open the door. 

"Steady," he whispered to himself before boldly stepping into the hall. 

He caught sight of John on his knees, his heart twisting up. "John?" he breathed, rushing forward, his mind supplying him with horrible possibility after horrible possibility until he finally caught sight of John's tear-soaked face. 

"John? What's..." he went to his knees beside the man and drew him in close to his chest. "Hey...hey what...why are you so upset?"

John pushed himself away from Greg despite the utter agony it caused and backpedaled a few steps until he hit the wall. 

"I'm just g-going to hurt you again," he cried with a hitching breath and held up his hands to keep Greg away. His entire posture leaned to Greg, as he still yearned for comfort, but he had hurt him while trying his absolute best to help. 

Frankly, it was devastating.

John slid down the wall and crouched on the ground. 

"I need to learn that I-I c-can't just hurt y-you like that."

He'd decided that the fastest way for him to learn not to hurt Greg would be to starve himself of the man's affection. Greg wasn't punishing him, but he would punish himself.

Greg stared at John as nausea bubbled up the back of his throat, setting his hands openly trembling.

"I… _what_? I needed the lav, John! You didn't hurt me! I just had to go to the lav!" 

Greg was swiftly losing his fight against panic, his heart twisting so violently that it hurt in his jaw. He reached up and twisted a hand in the fabric of his shirt over his heart, cut to the quick that John had pushed him away. 

"I...I j-just needed...you didn't...I...I just-" he trailed off as defeat tore him down to nothing. He knelt, panting, clutching his chest as tears sprang right back to his eyes. 

"I just needed the lav...I just...I'm s-sorry, I'm sorry." 

John glared up at Greg. "I'm not that far gone! You sobbed, and ran into the lav, and put the taps on so I wouldn't hear!" 

John looked down at his hands hatefully. 

"Your eyes are red, and you kept going stiff when I tried to massage you. I wasn't hurting you! I was trying s-so hard n-not to hurt you. I f-finally got to-to do something for y-you and I hurt you!" 

John broke down fully and curled into a ball on the floor. 

"P-Please, tell me what I-I did and I'll fix it. Let me try again. P-Please l-let me try again!" 

John so desperately wanted to prove himself that he had resorted to pure, unrestrained begging. 

Greg moved forward, loathing this, keeping on his knees until he was close enough to touch John, but John had made it clear that he wasn't to do so. He went down to the ground completely without touching John, just a breath away and curled on his side in a mirror image. 

"John, please hear me," he whispered, his voice hitching though his tears, "I love you. You didn't hurt me. I'm...I'm just having a bit of trouble in my head, okay? It's not anything you've done. I got sad, and I didn't want to cry in front of you because I didn't want you to think you'd done it. That...Jesus _again_ , was the wrong thing to do. I'm..." he reached up and tapped his own head as tears dripped off his nose, "I am a screw-up, and I'm sorry. It's here," again he tapped at his temple," you didn't do it. I'm sorry, and if you want me to leave you alone...if that's what you want...then...then I'll give you space." 

His heart twisted terribly, lancing pain down his arm and between his shoulder blades, washing his face pale as he kept one hand to his chest.

"I'm sorry I keep messing up." 

"Just because it's in your head doesn't mean I didn't do it," John replied with a note of bitter self-hatred. How had he gone and fucked it up this time? 

Greg was so close, and John wanted nothing more than to close the distance and wrap his arms around his poor, broken friend he had injured so terribly. But no, this was his penance. 

"I c-can't because I need to l-learn," he explained and pressed against the wall to punish himself with the distance. 

"When I-I learn not to hurt you I can stop this. I just... You're sad, and I understand that. But don't run from me. I tried running, remember? I didn't want you to see me cry, and it made it worse. That was, what, two days ago? Don't you remember that it made it worse?" 

John hadn't meant for his tone to bite so much, and he pressed his hands over his mouth. 

_SHUT UP. SHUT UP SHUT UP. I'm just making it WORSE!_

Greg held his breath as John pushed away from him, speaking to him in anger. He closed his eyes and covered his face with his hands, feeling kicked in the gut, the pain in his chest worsening exponentially. He lay there like that, allowing John's disappointment and anger to soak into his skin for a full five minutes before he pushed himself up, hanging his head, getting up off the floor with staggering effort and dragging himself over to the sofa. 

He sat down slowly, openly sobbing, clutching at his chest as he pressed himself into the corner of the cushions and wrapped his arms around himself. 

"I'm...I'm s-sorry," he whispered, tipping his head to the arm of the sofa and closing his eyes, pulled in on himself as much as he could be, "I'll...I'll l-let you alone. I’m s-sorry." 

John forced himself to watch Greg cry. He took in every tear, every pained breath and every detail of his friend's agonized face. He had done that. He was to blame. He had spoken out of anger for himself and directed it to the last person on earth who deserved it. 

John didn't trust himself to speak, and instead tried to write a line he could rehearse and deliver perfectly.

_I should not have hurt you. I am sorry. I am an idiot-_  
No, that wouldn't do. 

_I love you. I am so sorry. Please love me._  
No, too desperate. He didn't deserve comfort. 

_I don't know what to say. I am afraid I will say something again that hurts you. I am afraid to touch you because you'll pull away or look distant._  
NO! He couldn't call Greg out on what he was doing wrong! 

John put his head down and held his breath for as long as he could. 

_In, two, three, four._

_Hold, two, three, four._

_Out, two, three, four._

_Hold, two, three, four._

John repeated the exercise four times, which seemed appropriate, before standing and wrapping his arms around himself protectively. 

"I am sorry. I should not have spoken harshly. I..." 

Damnit, he couldn't remember. 

"I am...uhm... I am sorry, no, I said that... I am afraid to speak because I'll hurt you, and when I...you looked distant and..." John shook his head, losing the words. 

"No! Nevermind. I'm done. I'll shut up. Nevermind."

Greg kept his eyes closed as John spoke to him, feeling the _I'm done_ as surely as though John had come and struck him. 

"I...please don't be done! I love you, I'm an idiot but I love you, and I'm sorry...I'm sorry John I'm _trying_ and it's...it's always wrong and I..." he trailed off, nearly gagging as stress overwhelmed his system. He opened his eyes and looked up at John as he sat in his own personal little hell. 

"I...I don't m-mean to be...be so distant I..." 

He lost grip on a sharp sound of distress as his heart squeezed so tight it stole his breath. 

"I..I am lonely and I w-want to reach out to you as my best m-mate and when I do I h-hurt you and I can't stand hurting you and I set you back and I j-just was trying to protect you and I m-made a mistake! I made a m-mistake and I- you would have thought my crying was your fault and so I t-tried to hide it when I couldn't keep steady and now you're done with me and I c-can't-" he shook his head and pressed a hand over his face, rocking slightly in a desperate effort to calm the fuck down. 

"I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry, John forgive me I'm sorry!" 

John put his face in his arms and wept bitterly. He cried and sobbed and cursed at himself until he was out of breath and his vision swirled. 

He would have killed himself in that moment if he thought it would help. He would have gutted himself or hung himself or even drowned himself if he thought it would even have a chance of ending Greg's pain. 

John stood then and took a deep breath. He held it, and his face turned a bit red, but he needed to calm himself. When he spoke, his voice was a harsh, rasping whisper. 

"We both think this is our fault. You and I both think this our doing. We need to be clear about this. Sit up. We're going to figure this out." 

John walked over and sat down on the couch near Greg. He couldn't speak anymore. It was threatening the house of cards that was still shaky. 

John grabbed a piece of paper and slapped it on the table. He made two columns, then swiftly ripped the paper in half down the middle. 

 

_What John wants. What Greg wants._

"Write."

Greg stated at the paper, close to passing out, hands shaking so hard he dropped the pen twice before getting hold of it. Typically John's anger would encourage him, but in that moment, directed honestly at him, Greg could hardly breathe.

He swallowed several times, chest hurting and shining with sweat as he tried to decide what the hell to put on paper.

Ten minutes later, he'd answered as honestly as he could:  
_John's trust.  
John happy and safe._

John wrote several things and then crossed them off. Eventually, he had narrowed it down and handed it to Greg. 

_Greg to be happy._

_To stop hurting Greg._

_Sherlock to be happy._

_To stop hurting Sherlock._

_Greg to love me._

_No more pain._

_No more fear._

_To be happy. Only if it doesn't make them sad._

_Dog._

Greg stared at his list and then looked over to John's. 

"Dog. Yes, I...I can get you a dog," he said quietly, determined to find John a massive breed dog in the form of a trainable puppy. 

"I..I can get him service papers and he can go wherever you go. I'll..I'll get you a dog." 

Greg was going to be sick, running a shaking hand over the back of his neck, doing his best to stop fucking crying. 

John reached out and took Greg's list. He needed to know what he had to do to keep the man safe. 

"You want me to trust you? I do trust you. Is this really all you want?"

Greg looked over to John and nodded. "I...yeah, that's...I mean I love you. I want you to trust me. Really, really trust me. But yeah that's..I love you, I just want you to be happy, I want you to feel safe, I want...I want you to trust me."

John was still whispering due to the lump in his throat. 

"If this is all you want, I can do it. I already trust you. I’m the most devastated when I hurt you. I don't know what I did when you suddenly left, but I wanted to die. I made the same mistake. I thought that crying would upset you, and I went outside. Obviously, that made it worse. Now we've both done it, and we won't again. You can cry in front of me, just tell me why so I don't think I've hurt you."

Greg dragged his hands over his face, well and truly trapped. He’d run to avoid telling John that he _had_ been hurting him, though unintentionally and through no fault of his own. Now he was going to have to figure out elaborate ways to fucking _lie_. 

Greg reached down with a trembling hand and took John's list again, tears sliding down his face as he read over it, failure heavy on his already aching heart. 

"I...I've been trying...all of it I've been trying. I don't know if I can do it. I love you. I can g-get you a dog and I-" he dragged in a shaking breath and set the list back down, staring at his useless hands, sitting on his useless sofa, listening to John chastise him. 

"I'm...I've been trying...all those things I- I'm ‘n i-idiot and I can't s-seem to-" he pressed a hand over his eyes and tried to catch his breathing back, loathing being so out of control. 

"I'm so sorry. I w-want to give you everything on your list and...and I don't know if I can." 

John grabbed his list and held it just inches from Greg's face. 

"You see the first thing on this list? It says for you to be happy. For some reason, I can't be happy if you aren't. Now, back to your list." 

John was whispering in a manic sort of way, far past grief, and into a frenzied, problem solving state. 

"I already trust you, so let's just cross that one off. You want me to be happy. I want you to be happy. Obviously, we can't have one without the other. So let's just stop hurting each other. Here," John got out another piece of paper and ripped it in half again. 

"Write down everything that I do that hurts you, as I'll do the same. Don't lie to me. Don't withhold things because you're worried I'll react wrong. We need to get past this. Do you understand?" 

John held out a piece of torn paper and a pen with a shaking hand.

Greg flinched and shook his head, "I...I don't want to do this what if you...what if I m-make you leave _again_ because I said s-something _stupid_?" 

This felt like a trap, and John was angry and Greg was exhausted and overwhelmed. Still he took the paper and pen, tears rolling down his cheeks, staring at the blank paper just _waiting_ for him to write something down that would slam John back into his own mind for days. 

With his heart in his throat and his ears ringing, losing little clipped sounds of fear and distress, Greg began to write in very small letters. 

_When John leaves._

_When John doesn't trust me._

He scratched the last one out violently, shaking his head. That wasn't John's fault. What could he possibly do here?

He...how could he write the rest? 

"I...I can't...John I can't it's not th-things that are your fault I...please I just...can we lie down? I'll...if you don't want me near you I'll..please John I don't know how to do this."

John could see that he was hurting Greg and _oh_ how it hurt. It twisted his guts into tight knots and he bit down hard on the inside of his cheek. Greg had flinched. Greg wanted to get away. Greg wanted him to stop. 

But if he stopped now, John wouldn't know what he was doing that was hurting Greg.

He wouldn't know how to proceed, wouldn't know how to keep Greg safe, and John was fairly certain he would hang himself if he continued to make Greg feel pain. 

"I don't think you understand," John said and forced the pen back into his hand. "If I keep hurting you, I am going to _fucking kill myself_. Tell me what the hell I am doing so I can stop. I love you. Don't make me hurt you. I'll write what hurts me too so you know."

He began writing then, and had a much longer list than Greg. John didn't show it to him yet.

_When you say you shouldn't love me._

_When you get distant._

_When you get hurt and I don't know why._

_When you won't tell me what I'm doing wrong._

_When you won't tell me what hurts._

Greg closed his eyes as his heart skipped several beats, stealing his breath away. What he’d just done in running to the lav to hide was so catastrophically bad, that John no longer wanted to live. 

_I want to live! Oh, god I want to live, Greg!_

He let his head hang for a moment, his breathing shattered and overly fast as he struggled with himself, letting the severity of his own failure to wash over him. Write the list and watch John retreat forever, or don't write the list and wake up with him dead? 

_When John traps me._

His handwriting was a mess and he sobbed even as he complied, pushed back against a rock and a hard place. 

_When John-_

He tipped his head down against the side of the sofa, dizzy and sick, swallowing reflexively. _I'm going to kill myself. Don't make me hurt you_. He groaned in broken defeat and set his pen down, dropping his elbows to his knees and holding his face in his hands as he rocked softly, trying to soothe himself and settle. He allowed himself that for a full minute before picking up the pen again and finishing the line. 

… _thinks I'm going to or did hurt him when I did not._

_When John sees his struggle to overcome trauma as doing something wrong._

"Okay that's...here, god here, just...I l-love you and I'm s-sorry and-" he shook his head, waiting for the tell tale sounds of John being wounded and running back into his own mind. 

John felt like the lowest, most vile villain to ever walk the face of the earth. He had bitten a hole into the side of his cheek and blood was filling his mouth. 

He deserved this; all of this, and as his torment mounted he couldn't help the tears that flowed freely down his stoic face. 

When Greg was finished, he looked the list over. The first one hurt the most, as he had no idea he had been trapping Greg, or how to even go about trapping him if he wanted to. 

"I don't understand this one... But the second, yeah. I know that hurts. Time. I need time. I always logically know you won't hurt me, but when I'm in a panic, nothing makes sense. That isn't John. That's..." John flinched and physically tore himself away from the name he was about to use. It was a bit of a mental reset, and he repeated himself. 

"When I panic, I can't help it. I'm sure you don't...God, I hope you don't blame me for this. I'll try. I'm getting better. It will get better."

The third one had him perplexed as well, and he handed Greg's list back along with his own. 

Greg didn't look at the list yet, still struggling with the barbs that John tossed at him. 

"I _know_ ," Greg sobbed, covering his face with his hands, "I s-said this wasn't your f-fault and you made me write it anyhow! I don't want you to kill yourself so I wrote it! I know this isn't your fault, John!" 

God how he wanted to _run_ , shaking head to toe, nearly hyperventilating. 

"I know it's not you and I know I'm disgusting for being hurt and if you need me to hate myself for it I will! I already do I-" he shook his head and pulled at his hair as he grappled with panic and trapped fear. 

He grabbed at John's list then and forced himself to read where he was failing. 

"I s-said-" he groaned, heart breaking as he read the first line. His face washed pale and he was leaning harder on his elbows, overwhelmed to the point that he was ready to black out, "I tried to explain and it makes it worse. I...I don't...I do all these things to t-try and protect us and-" he clutched John's list in a tight fist, propping his forehead on his hand and clawing his fingers into the hair at his crown. 

If he told John why he'd been distant and silent about his pain, he'd pitch John into a hopeless spiral. He had to come up with a lie, and right then, to an effect that John would believe or he was going to fucking kill himself and then-

"I'll fix it all, I'll f-fix it I'll fix it just please l-let me try and- oh god I- John I-" his voice cracked and his unsupporting knee vibrated with anxiety while his chest constricted, making it hard to move air in and out of his lungs at all.

It surprised John to realize that he was getting nowhere. It was strange, alien and concerning that Greg did not understand the point of him writing the things down. 

It occurred to John quite suddenly that perhaps Greg wasn't the emotional rock he could lean on. Perhaps Greg was a man, a damaged one, and needed to be treated as such. John took Greg's list and tucked it into his waistband at his hip where he could keep it and be sure he was doing all the things right. Clearly, Greg was at the end of his rope, and it was time for John to step up. With this in mind, John scooted closer to Greg and pulled him into his arms. 

He knew his list had hurt Greg, that it had injured him, but if Greg knew what to avoid, he wouldn't hurt John as much. And in turn, he wouldn't be hurt himself. So this was all for good, right? 

John stroked Greg's hair as bitter resolve swept through him. He no longer lived for himself. He lived for Greg. He would become a perfect man; understanding Greg, expressing why he was sad if he needed to break down in order to avoid confusion and hurt, he'd be there for Greg and listen to him and under no conditions react to what Greg had said. 

"Shhh.... It's alright. I understand. I am not angry with you, love. I am only telling you so you can avoid doing it, so I can be happy. That's how I'll make you happy. Then, when you're happy, I can be. It's a circle. This is how I can start the circle. We just needed to start the circle. You can cry. It's alright. I know this hurt, but it will make you happy in the end."

Greg wanted to run. Oh, _god_ did he want to run and drink himself stupid and throw himself in the Thames. The dramatic shifts in John worried him deeply and he knew this current behavior was as a result of his own failings, but he could not draw away or he'd surely send John into a tailspin he couldn't stop. 

John’s artificial soothing burned like fire and _still_ he could not quiet himself, utterly devastated by the day. Nothing, _nothing_ had hurt like this, save for the day John thought he'd raped him. He'd been effectively gutted, taken out at the knees, reeling without knowing which way was up. 

He leaned against John, all raw nerves and exhaustion, down hard still from the days of watching John comatose, not feeding himself much at all, sick with his failure. He'd never imagined that John would be this crushing presence, demanding and then punishing when Greg met those demands. In a horrifying way, it emotionally mirrored what John had been subject to and that realization fell on Greg's lap like a ton of bricks, leaving him physically struggling to effectively breathe. 

"I- I c-can't-" he gasped, pressing his hands to his chest as his first true, unadulterated anxiety attack roared over him and stripped away all his coping mechanisms, leaving him wheezing like an asthmatic. 

John's lips were in a tight, false smile and his eyes were just a bit too wide as he stroked Greg's hair. 

_This is alright. This is what I should do. I'll never hurt him again. I've got my paper. I can do those things. No more pulling away from Greg, no matter what. Not even to punish myself. No more hiding from Greg, even if I think it will protect him. No more crying without telling him exactly why I am sad. No more mistrust. If Greg asks me to stick my hand in flames, I will. I will offer comfort to Greg at all times and listen to what he has to say. Under no circumstances will I react negatively to anything he says. Greg could express desire to hurt me and I will remain calm. I will understand that Greg will never hurt me. I will express my trust and understanding through words and actions. I will never hurt Greg. I will never hurt Greg. I will never hurt Greg._

John pulled Greg into his lap and kissed the top of his head. 

"It's alright, love. I've got you. Thank you for writing those things for me. I'm glad we've got that done. Tomorrow we can work on being happy. Maybe we can get a dog. Wouldn't that be nice? You're so strong, Greg. I'm sorry I had to ask difficult questions. Now that I know, I won't do them anymore. I am sorry I pull away sometimes. I want you to know that it has never been out of anger. I love you." 

John's voice was incredibly calm, and he found that when he set his mind to something as important as Greg's well being, he could do nearly anything. 

Greg didn't _know this man_. 

Who the hell had crawled in the space where John had been, animating him and speaking to him in that ethereal, horrifying calm? What had he done? What could he have possibly done differently? 

John had pinned him and forced his hand and now he sat with a stranger while John went...who the fuck knew where John was? This wasn't _John_ , nor was it the broken man he'd come to know simply in a calm state. This was something...artificial and forced, something so unnervingly _off_ that Greg couldn't think properly. 

"What are...what..." he pulled back from John, choking and struggling to breathe properly, seized up with fear, "J-John? Where did...where did you go? I'm… _please_ I'm trying to get...get it t-together please I-" he shook his head and pulled in a few desperate breaths in an attempt to calm himself, "Please...where did you go? Y-You don't have to be like this I-" he was going to black out. Greg steadied his hand on the sofa, swaying where he sat as he stared in open worry at John, "Wh-where did I make you go?"

The words sliced through John and he almost fell apart on the spot. Leaving was one of the things that hurt Greg. Greg thought he had left. 

John scrambled in his mind for something to fix it, something that might repair this before he injured Greg more. 

"I didn't leave, my love. I'm right here. I'm not going anywhere. You didn't do anything. Thank you for making the list. I'll do better now. See? I'll not hurt you anymore. I won't hurt you. I'm sorry you think I left, but here I am. Talking to you. I didn't walk away and I'm not inside my head. What's wrong? I am trying very hard not to hurt you. If there is something I could do to improve, please inform me." 

John ran his fingers through Greg's hair and smiled down at him as he fell apart inside. 

_Just keep it together_. He only needed to comfort Greg. That's what he could do. He was going to do the things on the list and keep himself from hurting Greg. 

Something cold and terrified twisted in Greg's chest and he reached out suddenly and pulled John to his chest. 

"You don't have to be okay all the time, John, yeah? You...You c-can be not okay, I...it doesn't h-hurt me when you're...Okay, okay," he stopped for a second, holding his breath for ten seconds and then breathing deep and slow while his heart galloped in his chest. 

"L-let's talk through what's happening right now...we've...we've crossed hairs somewhere I th-think and we need to talk about what's happening right now. You...I don't recognize you right now, do...do you th-think you have to be ...steady for me? Is that wh-what you are...are doing," _Jesus_ he was irritated with his pathetic, stuttered breathing, doing his best to talk around it as he clutched John to him. 

John allowed Greg to hold him against his chest, because at no point was he to pull away. No matter what. 

"I am sorry you don't recognize me," John said with a voice that was eerily calm. His mind was screaming, his heart tearing, his insides twisting, but his voice remained steady. 

"I am sorry I hurt you in the past by being unclear. I understand that it is okay to not be okay. If I am sad, I will cry. I simply don't want there to be any misunderstandings about why that might lead to you thinking you hurt me."

Greg pushed John back so that he could hold him by the shoulders, staring at him for a moment before speaking. 

"I love you, John. I need you to look me in the...the eye right now and t-tell me you're not f-falling apart, because I th-think you are falling apart and you...you're scared that's going to hurt me and J-John it's not going to hurt me. F-Frankly this...this...." he took one hand off John's shoulder and dragged it over his face, breathing for a moment to settle back down, "You're n-not okay and I know it. P-please John please tell me wh-what's going on." 

Again, he allowed himself to be moved. John's eyes were still a bit too wide in his effort to keep them dry and his mouth was in a strange smile. "My pain hurts you," he responded and blinked twice. "If you want me to break down, I will, because I am in distress, but if not, I will remain calm. I do not wish to hurt you."

Nothing had been as effective at stopping John's down spirals into grief as this. Nothing had kept his eyes this dry when he wanted to weep, or kept him this quiet when he wanted to scream.

Greg reached down and curled John's fingers into his own shaking hand, pressing his lips to John's knuckles and closing his eyes. 

"I don't know what to...what to do here...John I- this...this isn't you I-" 

He pressed a kiss to John's palm, tears sliding down his face, struggling not to openly panic. 

"I don't w-want you to pretend you're okay when you're not I- your pain doesn't...okay it hurts me just l-like I think mine does you...but it's not the same as someone _trying_ to hurt me. It's..it's empathy pain not...not pain like...like you're _doing_ something to me and-" 

He stared at John, watching the odd way his face held in an artificial mask that made Greg want to scream.

"I...sh-should I have...not written the list? It w-wasn't...John please I- this is scaring me I don't understand what you're doing."

At mention that he didn't understand, John began to explain like a programmed robot. 

"I am trying to protect you. Currently, I have all the things you said in a list in my mind. I am taking each one into careful account and acting accordingly. There seems to be another element that I am missing. You are upset because I am pretending to be mentally stable when in fact I feel quite upset. Would you feel better if I were to tell you how I feel?"

Greg reached down and snatched his list from the hem of John's trousers, raking his eyes over what he wrote. 

"What...what p-part of this makes you think I want… _this_? John...please _god_ you made me write the damn th-thing, why...John _please_ , why are you doing this?! I didn't want to write it! Please, John!" he looked from the list to John's face, honestly confused and panicking. 

"John I don't want you to- what are you even doing I- I'm sorry I wrote it! I'm sorry, oh god, I don't know what to do, John please."

John's calm was beginning to crack, and raw, honest, painful desperation showed on his face for a fraction of a second. 

_Jesus fucking CHRIST! Can I do NOTHING right?_

John regained his calm and allowed Greg to take the note. 

"Greg, I am only trying to speak rationally. I know that you don't like it when I pull away. I am not. You don't like it when I think you are going to get me. I don't. You don't like it when I trap you. I have no intention of it. Would you _please,"oh, dear god, please_ ,"-tell me what you want me to do?"

"I want you to be...be I want...I don't w-want you to put on a show! I just want _you_ , John, not...I don't w-want you to hurt y-yourself for- for my benefit I-" he raked a trembling hand through his hair, got up, and walked into the kitchen long enough to grab a beer from the fridge and walk back to John, gone all of ten seconds. He sat down on the floor by the sofa and cracked the damn thing, putting it down in one go, the bottle clanking as he set it down empty with trembling hands. 

_Fix it. Fix it right the fuck now, Greg. Fix it._

"Does it hurt, John?" he asked as calmly as he could. 

John didn't know if he should drop the facade, but when Greg returned and asked the question, he did so. John's face broke like shattered glass and he dropped his head into his hands. 

"Yes, it hurts," he said in a voice eons smaller than the one he had used just seconds ago. 

It hurt _so bad_. If this was what Greg wanted, to see that it hurt, he would give it to him, but John doubted it would help. 

Greg got up off the floor and pulled John to him, "If you don't want me touching you, that's okay, just tell me. I love you and I'm...I'm sorry I keep hurting you...so sorry, John, I'm so sorry, but we...I can't...I would never want you to pretend to be okay when...when you're not. I know you don't withdraw on purpose. I know...I know you are not in your calm m-mind when you think I've hurt you or that I would. I...I love you and I hurt _with you_ and th-that just has to be okay. It has to be okay. I r-ran because I thought you seeing me cry would hurt you. I s-still don't know what to do about that but...please John I don't n-need you to pretend to be okay. That's not wh-what I want at all." 

John didn't pull away. He didn't want too, and knew now that punishing himself would punish Greg as well. 

"I understand your concern," he said in a voice still calm but far too broken to be the one from before. 

"I never said I was alright. I am in great pain because I continuously hurt you. I do not wish to be alive. This is worse than death." 

The calm, nearly nonchalant way John spoke of it was nearly terrifying, and he tilted his head to look at Greg. 

"I am only remaining calm so I can gather information as to what you want. Tell me, please, would it make you feel better if I were to remove my pretense of calm?"

Greg's heart twisted violently. He had made such an enormous mistake that he’d ruined every drop of progress they’d made. 

"No that's...no you want to _live_! You want to live! You drank the tea and it was good and you saw that it won't always hurt. Remember? You want to live. This...what is worse than death? What's happening...what am...am I doing that's making you want to leave? I'll stop. Tell me what I'm doing...please tell me and I'll quit doing it look! I'm...here I'm...I'm sad because I said a dumb thing a few days ago and it scared you so bad you couldn't...couldn't cope and then I was scared while you...stopped responding to me and I s-stopped eating because I was scared and then I...I f-felt really angry at myself! And-and when you came b-back I was scared to hurt you again so I became d-distant because I didn't trust myself not to hurt you, and that didn't work..and you try so so so hard all the time and I f-feel guilty for knocking you down and I didn't mean to! I didn't m-mean to and I just...I was lonely and scared and I s-said too much and I'm scared I'll m-make your life worse and I'm- look, John! I'm telling you! See? You...you want to live! I won't always be....be so shit at this I won't and...no, you s-said you wanted to live!" 

Now that John had a narrative to work with, things got a bit easier. He had hurt Greg by disconnecting, yes, but the events after that had not been entirely his fault. 

"I won't disconnect again. I won't leave you. I love you! If you had just told me this-" John stopped. If he continued with the sentence, he would be blaming Greg, which was something he simply wouldn't do. 

"When I do something that scares you; tell me. Then I won't do it again and I won't spend so much time thinking about what I've done and trying to figure it out and _Greg_ ," he whined the word and grabbed little fistfuls of his shirt, "I can't keep hurting you. I need you to help me. I know you get sad! I get it! Really, of all people, you should know that I fucking understand grief. But I don't always know what I've done, or what's made you sad, so I assume I've done something and it _hurts_." 

Greg had recounted and recounted what had happened to John, over and over again, the same story, the same explanation, but it seemed to only now register. What was he to do? 

"I...I tried to tell you I'm sorry I didn't say it right before. I...I get scared trying to explain because...I was explaining when I s-said...I was explaining and I made things terrible for you. I feel like the lowest...god the _worst_ m-man and I..." his breathing hitched and he pulled John to him, closing his eyes as he sat there shaking.  
"Please don't kill yourself. God, please, John please. I'm so...so sorry I m-messed up bad enough to t-take away your hope. Oh god I'm..." his voice cracked and he tipped his face down onto John's shoulder as he clutched at him. 

"I'm...I'm doing e-everything I can John and....I was explaining and I m-made you leave and it's scary to h-have no w-way to move without it being wrong and...I...you w-wanted to stay with me and I...god I took that away from you. I'm so sorry, John forgive me I'm- I'm a horrible man I just- oh god, I'm so sorry." 

John's chest heaved and he was teetering on the edge of a steep cliff. 

"If I fall apart," he said in a voice of someone ready to slip, "it will be bad. I don't blame you for what happened. That whole incident is labeled as me hurting you. I don't even register what you did. I register that you were having a conversation and I took something wrong and hurt you. I don't know why I took it so badly. Probably because of the torture. Just... taking a _wild guess_." 

John breathed deeply and pressed his hands over his eyes. 

"What I need to be alright after this is a clear way to not hurt you again. I need something concrete that I can do to help-" John suddenly let out a single, choked sob and covered his face. 

"I thought I could get you to relax with a massage, but you looked so uncomfortable I thought I might be hurting you. But I asked if I was allowed to keep going and you said yes, so I thought maybe I wasn't hurting you, and then you ran away from me." 

Greg gently took John's hands from his face and held them right under his own chin, leaning in and brushing his lips over John's chastely. When he drew back seconds later, he spoke softly. 

"It felt amazing, and all I wanted to do was relax. My own mind got in the way. I knew I didn't deserve comfort from you and I..I've been so lonely and afraid the last few days that it made me want to ...want to lean on you and I was scared that was wrong and so I tried to keep off from it and being touched and comforted is so nice, so nice, John. Just...l-last time I let myself be comforted I...god John I didn't know if you were coming back and..." he shook his head, pressing a kiss to John's hands, "so I ran to give m-myself a chance to fall apart and...it was wrong and I'm sorry."

John felt as if a sliver of hot metal had finally been pulled out of his heart. 

He was burned, in pain and terrified, but no longer actively scalding. 

"It's not a bad thing to lean on me as long as I understand what is going on," John whimpered and kept his face pointed up towards Greg's. 

"I want to be able to help you. When you lean on me, I feel like I'm something more than just a burden and a waste of oxygen. I..." 

John was so close to mental collapse, but he'd kept it together thus far, and was determined to go on. 

"You can make me happy by smiling at me, letting me help you, and being affectionate. I love those things. I adore them. I live for them. P-Please," he was starting to crack, "L-Let's leave this behind."

Greg had never been more glad to hear four words before. He'd been wanting just that for what seemed like hours now. 

"Bed," he breathed, his chest aching terribly. He stood up, stumbling back and having to catch himself before hitting the ground, managing to keep his feet. He reached out with a trembling hand and took John's, pulling them down the hallway as his breathing hitched and he struggled with tears still sliding down his face. He settled John on the edge of the bed and then tipped out his medications, handing him two of the blue pills and wishing he could take them himself, ready to climb out of his skin, his chest so tight that each breath hurt. 

"You...you need to have something in your stomach s-so I'm-m...I'm going to h-hook up a feed and...and g-give you fluids and we...we can s-sleep or watch a...a f-film or..." his knees were shaking on him and he was having a hard time keeping his legs, staggering over to John and handing him his pills with both hands, scared he'd drop them. 

John took his pills and had about ten seconds of calm before he broke. The flood gates were shattered and grief poured through him. John grabbed a pillow and held it to his face as he cried openly for all the damage he had done and pain he had felt. He couldn't manage words for several minutes, couldn't move to reach for Greg as his body was so locked up with agony.

"H-h-hol-l-ld m-m-m-me?" John could neither look up from his pillow nor move in any way to Greg, but he needed _help_. 

Greg scrambled up onto the bed as his stomach dropped out and he pulled John into his arms, laying them down and working around John to single-handedly grab the tube that connected to the one in John's nose, and then hook up his fluids, well practiced and done swiftly. Knowing John was being fed and hydrated, he pulled the man to his chest, his own body shaking hard with incredible stress, trailing trembling fingers through John's hair. "I love you," he managed, falling apart in his own right, his breathing tight and clipped. 

_How many days will he be gone now, you goddamned idiot?_

Greg dragged in another pained breath and clutched John to him, dizzy and seeing stars, his vision tunneled. He needed help, but there was nothing for it, and so he clung to John and did his best to rub the man's back and card his fingers through his hair while his own body tried to shut down, utterly overwhelmed. 

John grabbed hold of Greg and turned to hold onto him with his entire body. He got his legs wrapped around Greg's and locked his arms behind Greg's back. 

"I d-didn't wan-nt to h-hurt you. I-I just, I-" John kissed Greg's shoulder, which was closest to him, and spoke into the fabric of his shirt. "I-I'll b-be so h-h-happy if y-you just l-let m-me help y-you." 

At this point, John wanted nothing more. Sherlock wasn't even on his mind, or in his universe. John just wanted to help Greg and live happily with him. 

John laying so close and wound so tight around him helped Greg at least draw in a proper breath, filling his lungs. He carried on trailing his fingers through John's hair and rubbing gently at his back, the pain in his chest lingering despite himself. He spoke in clipped, stuttered effort. 

"I...I c-can't m-make...make my-s-self calm...calm down I-" he shook his head as gooseflesh bloomed up his back and fanned over his arms and he gathered John in as close as he could, dry, silent sobs catching his chest and tearing him apart. 

"I'm s-sorry I- I- can't st-stop I-" he shook his head as he held tight to John. 

John closed his eyes and wept freely on Greg's shoulder. He wept for what he had done, the damage, the way he'd taken something so good and turned it into something so painful. John couldn't find words that would work properly for several minutes, and ended up whispering into his shirt when it was quiet. 

"Neither can I."

Greg made a sound that was dangerously close to a whimper, hating himself. He rolled them to their sides, careful of John's lines, and spoke softly. 

"I'm so s-sorry John I- I- I....c-can g-ive you your me-medicine and you can s-sleep? I...you've...you took the pills th-they should help you in..few minutes I..." he had no excuse for this. Deeply ashamed, he buried his face down to the side of John's head. "

I am s-so-sorry I did th-this to you, 'm s-" he snapped his jaw shut, feeling nauseous. "J-Just sleep, see if-f you can sleep." 

John pulled his face away in a nuzzling sort of way that made it clear his intention was just to look Greg in the eyes. He loved those eyes. John stared at them, clearly in love despite the pain this caused, and reached up to run his fingers through Greg's hair again in the way he liked. 

"You will mess up...and...still," John leaned in and pressed his lips to Greg's for a moment before smiling and nuzzling back against him. Hopefully, Greg would get the meaning. No matter what Greg did, at this point, John would still love him.

Greg lay there with John, stuttering in his attempt to breathe properly. He closed his own eyes, intensely stressed. He'd not wanted to do any off that, not any of it. As the minutes ticked on he kept carding his fingers through John's hair, progressively feeling worse. 

He'd...John wanted to die. He wanted to leave. He was suffering worse than death by his own admission. Greg tightened his hold on John as his stomach rolled, and he groaned, pressing his face into the pillow.

_I will kill myself._  
Don't make me hurt you.  
I want to die.   
This is worse than death. 

Greg could not get a proper breath as he lay there sobbing. "I...I didn't want..." He shook his head as he sucked down little panting breaths, so deeply loathing himself that he was nearly mad with it. 

John continued to press feather light kisses to Greg's face, then his shoulder when John laid his head down again. "Just remember that I love you," John insisted as he began to calm. 

He felt the pull of sleep and lunged towards it full force. John no longer wanted to be awake, and he assumed that sleep would bring him some sort of repose to this utter hell. 

Greg held tight to John as the man fell asleep, waiting until John's breathing evened out and he went lax, and then holding off another eight minutes before he began to sob. Panicked tears and chaotic breathing broke the silence of the room for the next hour, leaving Greg dazed and raw as he slowly calmed. His head pounded and his swollen eyes were heavy, so damn heavy, but he did not allow himself to sleep. 

John was suicidal and had already once managed to get on the balcony, locking himself out, before Greg had been able to get to him. He couldn't go to sleep, he just couldn't. And so he lay there, shaking himself awake every few minutes, his exhausted mind coming up with crazier and crazier solutions to all of this until he was actively pulling at his hair, feeling himself crack apart.

John didn't wake for four hours, at which point all his wrongdoings and malefactions hit him at once. John suddenly gasped and dug his short fingernails into the flesh on the back of each hand in an attempt to distract himself. He couldn't yet tell if Greg was awake, and tried to remain as quiet as possible as he worked to get his nails into his flesh. Steeping in self loathing, John went over his list again. 

He would not hurt Greg. He would not pull away for any reason. He would not hide his pain from Greg. He would do everything in his power to help Greg. He would trust Greg unconditionally. He would never think Greg was hurting him. Greg. Greg. Greg. Such a small name for the most important thing in John's life.

Greg reached down quietly, taking John's hand in his trembling fingers, bringing John's to his lips and holding it there. He'd fallen into dozing for twenty to thirty minutes at a time by then, but had been awake when John tensed, saw him trying to dig his nails to his skin. 

"It's-s alright, J-John," he whispered quietly, forcing himself to take a deep breath in an attempt to calm down. 

John watched Greg kiss his fingers and whimpered softly. "Why are you being nice to me? I hurt you. I made you write things. I'm such a bad person. I'm horrible. He was right. I'm just hurting everyone."

Greg closed his eyes, inadvertently pressing tears to roll down his cheeks as he shook his head, keeping John's fingers to his lips. 

"I love you. You just got scared and overwhelmed, you are not a bad person. You...you had me write...to try and help. You were just...you f-felt trapped, yeah? You're not a bad person and you're n-not horrible. Please, I love you, you're not hurting everyone, John."

John didn't believe a word of it, but he wasn't going to argue. He closed his eyes and pressed his face against Greg's chest here he could have a semblance of safety. 

"What you want is for me to be happy. What I want is for you to be happy. Let's move past this. Tomorrow, can I try again with the massage? I swear I won't hurt you."

Greg wrapped his arm around John, keeping hold of John's hand lest he try and hurt himself. He was glad for having recently trimmed John's nails down, not wanting John to punish himself. He was still shaking, trying to keep as steady as he could, pushed past the breaking point. 

"Of c-course you can John, you didn't hurt me earlier, it was really nice. I didn't r-realize how tense I'd been." 

He shivered and pressed closer to John, head pounding, strung out and raw. "I love you. I don't w-want you to be cruel to yourself."

John kissed Greg's cheek and kept his eyes on his favorite person's. "If I didn't hurt you, then... You left because you were afraid to lean on me, and...okay. Okay, I didn't hurt you with the massage." 

John suddenly relaxed and his face became far less horrified. 

"Okay. Okay. Okay. I'm glad. I'm glad. You'll let me try again."

Greg exhaled a wavering breath, relaxing slightly as John seemed to come down a bit. 

"Wh-whenever you want, you..I trust you John, I know you won't hurt me." 

He opened his swollen eyes and stared at John for a moment before shutting them again, feeling far too raw and vulnerable for this. He carded a hand through John's hair gently. 

"Do...you st-still like when I do this?" 

He breathed the question as he repeated combing his fingers through John's hair, nails grazing along John's scalp, desperate in his attempt to give John something pleasant to focus on.

John moved his head side to side as Greg touched his hair. "I always like this. Always." John brushed his fingers across Greg's cheek and kept his hand there on his face. 

"I want to be happy tomorrow. I understand if you can't be happy, but I'd rather you tell me. Tomorrow, we can just relax. We'll have tea and watch something. We can play Rummy, and play with the birds."

Greg leaned into John's hand, allowing himself to take the small offer of comfort, desperately needing it. He carried on sliding his fingers through John's hair, rubbing lightly at the base of his neck.   
"I'm-m trying," he whispered, his voice hitching and breaking, "I'm r-really try- trying, John, I'm sorry." He wanted to bury against John and hide, wanted to beg reassurance that he'd not killed them both, but John was still down very hard and Greg couldn't do that to him. 

"I...I w-want that for tomorrow too. I...I w-will fix...fix it okay?" 

John pulled Greg close and tangled his legs back up with his. "You don't need to fix it, my love. I will help you. It's not something you can fix. Here, Greg, dear, relax. I've got you."

John closed his eyes and actively nuzzled against Greg. "Tomorrow will be alright. It will. I promise. Could you let me hold you? You can cry. It's alright. I'll understand."

Greg offered no resistance as his stomach plummeted, hearing there was no way to correct...whatever it was he'd done. He leaned against John, tucking his face down against John's chest, clinging tight to him as his shoulders vibrated with intense stress. He'd _begged_ not to be made to tell John those things, and now he...he couldn't even _fix it_? 

_I want to die, this is worth than death._

A harsh, abrupt sob tore out of his throat and he held tight to John. 

"Y-you...you wanted...I m-made you..." he failed to get the words out, gasping as he fought for a proper breath, truly needing sleep. He dropped into clipped, stuttered apology, tangling his legs tighter with John, his own hair damp with cold sweat. 

John ran his hands over Greg's back and let him cry. 

“I hate hurting you. I hate it. I really, really do. It hurts me so much. I would rather..." John shuddered and tightened his grip on Greg. 

"There are...unspeakable things that I would rather have done than hurt you. I needed the list because I was hurting you without knowing why and it was killing me. Now I know what to do. We can recover from this."

Greg failed to calm himself down as John spoke, nauseated with what had happened. He'd made John furious with him, had received such disappointment and anger while already teetering on the edge of a terrible depression, brought on from silent, lonely hours at John's side. The days of lying on the sofa, calmly watching something amusing and enjoying John's company, of helping John smile and make his breakthroughs, seemed impossibly far away...another lifetime. 

Sleep finally demanded his attention, reaching up and dragging him down even as he cried, pulling him under as tears slid down his cheeks and his breathing hitched. Slowly his body relaxed under John's hands, mind shutting off to protect itself. 

John stared at Greg, not truly seeing him, and stayed very still while the man slept in his arms. He would have to shape up. He would have to step up to help Greg and keep him safe.

John stayed awake for two hours before dropping off to sleep. He had his legs wrapped around Greg's, his arms around his torso.

Greg slept for the next six hours, occasionally startling awake and ensuring that John was still there, that he was still breathing. When hazy orange morning light began to pour into the room, Greg properly opened his eyes, looking up to see John's drip bag empty. He was silent as he deftly disconnecting his fluids and the feeding tube, angry with himself for forgetting to the night before. 

His head ached as though filled with sand, and his eyes stung, but the sharp panic from the night before was gone.

John woke exactly when Greg stirred and immediately pulled him against his chest. 

"Love? You alright? I'm here. I'm here for you." 

John was stressed already and needed to get this absolutely perfect. But he couldn't force it as before. That would hurt Greg.

"How would you like to start our day? We could stay here, and you could have a massage. I'll go put the music on and you can relax."

Greg returned the hug, sliding his palm over the side of John's head, smoothing John's hair down. "I'm okay," he whispered, his voice much steadier now that he'd slept. 

"I'm alright, I'm here too." He pressed a slow kiss to John's forehead as he cradled the back of John's neck in his hand. 

"I...my head is killing me I need to get up and take something, but I think staying in here for a while would be best. We can just...be together and relax. Do you want a cuppa? You don't have to have one." 

John hummed happily when Greg kissed him and it flooded him with warmth that soothed his tense muscles. 

"I'd like some tea. You make the best tea. I'll come in the kitchen and help if I can. I'll get you things. I don't think I can cook, but maybe we can work with the water today, and I'll be able to wash dishes for you. I'd like to be useful."

Greg nodded, exhaling in relief, tension slowly easing off at John's clarity. 

"Okay, that's, yeah of course you can come with me. You can try with the water, but I want you to promise me that if it becomes...overly difficult, you will stop and we can try again later, yeah? Let's- I really need something for my head before it gets worse." 

He hugged him tight and pressed another kiss to John's temple, and then one to his cheek, wanting John feeling loved and safe. 

John smiled genuinely when Greg continued with his display of affection and wrapped his arms around his neck. 

"Alright. Let's go. Just sort of boss me around and tell me to get you things, and I'll try to remember where you keep them. Thank God Mycroft cleaned up a bit. You never did keep the place very clean."

Greg openly laughed at that, pressing a warm, dry kiss to John's lips, thumbs brushing along John's cheekbones before he sat them up. "Oi, hoovering was never my strong point."   
His head swam and he had to splay a hand out on the bed to keep from lurching over, pressing his palm to his temple and swearing under his breath. Still though he smiled, wrapping his hand around John's and getting them up, walking with John in an unsteady gait to the kitchen. 

"We need two mugs and the sugars," he said as he drew John into his arms, hugging him again and pressing a kiss to his temple. He let him go in the next moment and went for the medicine sitting on the counter, hands shaking hard enough that it made opening the bottle difficult. 

"Hey could you.." he trailed off, doing his best to make light of how terribly his head ached. 

John was grinning from the affection by the time they went into the kitchen. He was desperately hopeful now, and scrambled for the things.

John took the bottle from Greg and opened it after a few tries. "Funny, they always make those things hard to open when you're hurting. Seems a bit redundant, doesn't it?"

Greg nodded, huffing a brittle laugh, "Yeah, that's...go figure," he said gently as he tipped four of the damn things into his hand and swallowed them, brushing a kiss to John's temple and thanking him for opening the bottle. He moved away then, getting water for the kettle and setting it to boil. 

"We need the tray and a bit of applesauce or yogurt, whatever you want to try eating. I'm going to eat after my head settles a bit. I like milk in my tea." 

John got a cup of yogurt, and one of applesauce to go on the tray. He got the milk, sugar, spoons and a straw all together on the wood tray and set it beside the burners for Greg to use. 

"I'll get the cups, too. Same place as before?" John checked the cupboard and pulled out two.

Greg smiled at John as he functioned around the boiling water without hesitation. When it boiled, Greg got up and poured the tea for them, watching it steep. 

"Two ice cubes for yours," he said quietly, knowing John was already familiar with the feel of ice and hoping it would be okay, "and then let's go back to the bed, I want to lie down. Head is aching. Will you rub it for me? Helps a lot, when it hurts." 

John got his ice cubes and stayed facing the cold while the boiling water stayed behind him. It wasn't for him, and he logically knew that, but it still took a good bit of mental power to not fear it. 

He got the tray and waited just a few feet away from Greg, where he was safe from the boiling water but not too far away.

"I'll definitely do that, yeah. Of course. I'd love to."

Greg walked with the tea over to John, setting the mugs on the tray, nearly spilling as his hands shook. He looked down at his fingers and spoke softly, "My hands are shaking, but it's residual nerves and the pain in my head, it's not...I'm not in distress otherwise, okay? Just old nerves,' he was going to be as open as he could, without properly being open. 

"Let's go back." 

He moved down the hallway, nauseated from the pills but his heart much lighter, deeply pleased with John and the way the day was going thus far. He quickly made up the bed, just leaving a light throw for them if they wanted to cover up, lying down and pressing his face to a pillow as his head throbbed. 

John had immediately jumped to the conclusion that he had done something wrong, and Greg's explanation was much needed. 

"Oh. Alright. Thank you. I thought...It's just residual nerves and the headache. Just that. It's okay. I'm not hurting you, right?" John followed Greg and set the tray down.

He still felt like he was walking on eggshells, but Greg wasn't crying, so he couldn't be doing that terribly.

Greg turned his head slightly on the pillow so John could hear him. "You're making me feel so much better, I'm...you're doing really, really well. Thank you for being so understanding with me." He spoke calm and quiet, even as deep shame flared through his chest. 

"I'm...I don't do well with these sorts of headaches. Bit..bit of an infant, really." 

He shivered and tucked his face back down, sinking his fingers into the muscle at the back of his head, right at the top of his neck. 

John moved the tray to the side and slowly pulled Greg's head into his lap. 

"Let me, love. I might not have practiced in ages, but I still know anatomy." 

John started with the base of Greg's head and worked his neck a bit first. The action was soothing for him, as he was finally able to do something useful that he knew would help. 

"I'm glad you're letting me help. I think those lists will be a good thing. Thank you for telling me what was upsetting you. It's much easier than trying to hide it."

Greg whimpered in relief as soon as John's fingers began to work into his neck, the reprieve from pain nearly as swift as morphine. He curled his hand around John's thigh just in front of his face, eyes closed and shoulders starting to relax. He didn't want to talk about the hateful lists, he didn't want to remember that John's life with him was worse than death. 

And that...that was the core of it. 

Greg's home, Greg's company...he drove everyone, _everyone_ away in the end. 

This wasn't because of Moriarty. Not after John had found a reason to live, had seen the light and wanted to chase it. This was because Greg had failed so severely that… _worse than death_. 

He squeezed John's thigh, shoving down the desire to beg forgiveness again. It was done, and it would be what it was.

John worked up the back of Greg's scalp and rubbed in gentle circles. The man's neck was tense, as were his shoulder, and John could guess his back was a mess as well. The fact that he was finally being _useful_ to Greg left a pleasant smile on his face, but it suddenly vanished when Greg squeezed his leg. John's hands flew away and he leaned over to look at Greg's face.   
"Did I do something? Is everything alright?"

Greg nodded, easing his grip on John's leg, not having realized that he'd done that. 

"Yeah, yeah it's...what you were doing is _brilliant_. I'll return the favor if you'd like, but I...would you keep...it helps, it...doesn't hurt me while you're doing that, my head I mean. It doesn't...it stops hurting while you're doing that. I- I was just thinking about things that- I'm okay, I am probably dwelling on nothing." 

John immediately set to work again and gently turned Greg's head to the side so he could work on a set of tight muscles on his neck. 

"Alright. I'll keep going. If you'd like, I can do everything. It might feel nice to relax. I'll keep going with your head for right now." 

John was at his temples now, having worked up behind the ears, and bent down to kiss his forehead. 

"It'll all be alright, love. It'll be okay in the end."

Greg relaxed again as John traced out all the places that hurt to brilliant perfection. 

"Thank you," he whispered, honestly meaning it to his core. 

John smiled. "It's no problem. This is the happiest I've been in days."

Greg’s eyes burned in the release of the much needed comfort and assurance. He was quiet for a long while before his concern got the better of him and worry pushed him to speak. 

"John...are...can I ask you something?"

John continued to work in little circles, then trailed his fingers back over Greg's head to help with circulation. He leaned over slightly so he could see Greg's eyes when he spoke. 

"Yeah, always."

Greg kept himself from flinching as John spoke of his happiness. What if he ruined it? It was too late now, John would never allow him to retract. He looked up at John, biting the inside of his lip for a moment as he wavered. When he finally spoke, his voice was much smaller than normal. 

"You um, you said something that I...I need to better understand. I..." he cleared his throat and closed his eyes, "please don't be upset with me, I just need to understand exactly what you meant, because I...I can't stop hearing you say it and..." he exhaled forcefully to keep himself from tearing up. 

John was quiet for several moments as he filtered through every word he had said in the past few days. Whatever it was, it was obviously causing Greg pain. 

"I didn't mean it. I...Sorry, I don't know what you're talking about. Which thing? I don't... Was it the list? I'm sorry about the list. Tell me what I said that hurt you, and I'll explain why I said it."

Greg reached up and took John's hand, pulling it to his lips before speaking. 

"I don't think anything you said was to hurt me, John. You don't...you don't need to apologize. I just need to better understand. Please don't think I'm angry, I'm not, I promise you I'm not."

He drew in a slow breath, keeping his head tucked down on John's lap, hoping John's height advantage would give him more of an empowered feeling. 

"You...there was a point when you...you were talking about life here with me..." he cleared his throat, trying to push through the blistering agony of it, "you said...I’d thought you were happy. I thought...I’m so sorry...you said it is...is 'worse than death,' being here with me...am...am I hurting you that..." he stopped as his voice broke and he instantly began to shake his head, trying to calm down again, "if I'm...I didn't know it was that bad, John. I’m...I'm so sorry. I...later will you make me a list, so I can...can make this better for you?" 

_Oh. Hell._

John doubled over and rested his forehead on Greg's with a pained sigh. 

"I didn't...no, love, I meant... Jesus, I didn't mean that. I meant that hurting you is worse than death. I'm sure you understand. Would you rather knowingly be hurting me, or be dead? I know I'd take the later. I just...I only meant that I hate hurting you. I love living with you. I love this. I just can't stand knowing that I've been hurting you. I'm so sorry. I didn't mean it. I really didn't."

Greg closed his eyes in relief, pressing John's knuckles back to his lips with a trembling hand and breathing for a moment. 

"Thank you," he whispered, honestly meaning it, "I understand now...thank you...I thought..." he shook his head, shifting so that he could wrap his arms around John's waist, pressing his face to John's belly for a moment and breathing deep. 

"I drive everyone I love away, I thought I'd...thank you." 

John scooted forward a bit and wrapped himself around Greg like a protective shell. 

"I love you, Greg. I won't be driven away. I get nervous when you go away, even when I know you're just around the corner. It will be a long time before I you can even go to the lav without me waiting nervously for you to get back, and I will _never_ walk out on you."

John's words were incredibly soothing and he was able to pull in a proper, deep breath, nodding against his stomach. 

"Will you keep at my head? You're brilliant, I love you." 

He did not at all pull back, wanting to be tucked in close, deeply needing the comfort after days and days of torment. 

John kept his posture bent over and held Greg close, while working on his scalp. "I'll keep going, my love. You can rest or sleep or anything you want. I'm so glad that you're letting me help you. Thank you. I love you so much."

Greg tightened his arms around John, deeply comforted by the exchange.   
\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------


	30. Chapter 30

Meanwhile Sherlock was facing his brother's need to leave. He was laid on his side trying to mask his anxiety at Mycroft's need to make a run home. 

"You...You will be back?"

Mycroft held Sherlock's head to his chest and petted his hair. 

"I will be right back. I'm just going to get some clothes, my laptop and a few other things. It won't be bad. I'll be right back." 

His attention was met when a secretary of his came in with a large envelope for him. 

"Sherlock, here, I had the picture printed in several sizes. There's one for the ceiling, by your poster, one for the wall, and a small one for you to hold."

Sherlock closed his eyes and nodded, holding tight to Mycroft for another moment. It had been a difficult night for them both and while he was lucid, he was still deeply afraid.

Mycroft took the glossy pictures out and showed Sherlock the largest one, which was exactly proportional to John, were he in the room. 

"I'll leave these for you to look at."

"Can...can I sit up and...I...please My I...can I have my hands?"

He reached out and turned the picture of John down, waiting to look at it for the moment. "I'll be...I will do my best to keep calm. Please."

Mycroft placed Sherlock's hands gently across his chest and helped him sit up a bit with the back of the bed. 

"I'll be right back. If it helps, I can stay on the phone with you."

Sherlock shook his head, determined to make it. "H-have a shower and take...take the time y-you need. Miller and Paul will help me. Go. I'll...I'm going to s-stay calm. I will b-be calm when you return."

Mycroft kissed the top of Sherlock's head. "I'll be right back, 'Lock." He left then despite his desire to stay and rushed home. 

Sherlock lay there, clutching the picture as he fought panic. When he was alone, he turned the image and put his entire focus to John as his own body trembled with fear. 

Oh, god how he missed him. Sherlock traced the side of John's face and closed his eyes, forcing down a wave of panic.

Mycroft took a large enough bag that he wouldn't have to return home for days. He brought physics lectures as well, just some simple things to pass the time. 

When he returned to the hospital, his hair was wet and sloppily combed back from a hasty shower. Mycroft was slightly out of breath from running through the halls when he burst into the door and dropped his bag on the ground. 

"I'm back, Sherlock. I'm back." He was a few minutes ahead of schedule, which he believed would help.

Sherlock looked up from where he was clutching the picture of John, the image already well worn, Sherlock's eyes rid-rimmed, his nerves shot to hell in his effort to remain calm. He was trembling with his entire body, Moran shouting at him from the corner of the room, and still he was lucid.

"I'm...I'm sorry I'm...I- I do not mean to do this...this-s to you, brother. I...I h-hear him...he's..." Sherlock pointed to the blood thirsty man in the corner, "b-but I know where I...I am-m..."

Mycroft hurried to Sherlock's side and crawled up into bed next to him. "Okay, love. I'm here. I know you heard him. He isn't here. You're being so strong! Let me just hold you for a bit, alright?" 

Sherlock kept hold of the worn image of John crumpled in his fist as he reached for his brother. 

"I...I miss..." he shook his head as he tried to crawl to Mycroft, terrified of the laughing man in the corner, stressing his lines as he tried to get closer to Mycroft. 

"He's...He's s-still ok...right? He's...J-John's...He's....s-still happy? S-safe?"

Mycroft scooted closer to Sherlock and scooped him up into his arms. 

"John is safe. I am sure of it. I have cameras in his flat, and I can check any time. I'm glad you like the pictures. He looks very happy, doesn't he?"

Sherlock buried himself against his brother, holding on tight to Mycroft with a trembling grip. 

"He...he does...he...w-will he m-maybe send...j-just a few m-more I won't a-ask for...I'll leave h-him alone...I...he...the table it still...c-covered in his blood and I..." he pressed his face over Mycroft's heart, trying to breathe, "I w-wish I could f-fix it for him."

Mycroft slid his fingers through Sherlock's hair and spoke calmly. 

"I'll have him send a picture a day if you think it would help. I'll have them all printed for you. I'm sure he wouldn't mind. Remember how much he wanted to help? He is so worried about you, 'Lock. He wants you to be alright. I know you have a hard time with that, but he wants you to recover."

Sherlock dragged in a pained breath, holding tight to Mycroft. 

"No he..I scare him...I...if....I don't know how to...how to let him go. H-how do I let....let him...I love him I...I..." he shook his head, scooting closer, "sorry I..idiotic, idiotic." Sherlock was more keenly aware that he _must_ let go of John, that he _absolutely had to_ let him go, but he was utterly lost in how to stop the bone-deep ache of loss. 

Mycroft continued with his light gestures of affection. 

"You don't need to let him go completely, 'Lock, but..." Jesus, this was difficult. 

He was trapped between giving Sherlock hope, and giving him reality. 

"You should let go of him as a romantic interest and keep him as a friend. I don't think you two will be as close for several years. Friendship should be your goal."

Sherlock went very still against Mycroft for several minutes as imagery of Greg and John raced past his mind. 

"He...they..." he stopped, snapping his jaw shut as he thought of them. He held tight to his brother, listening to Mycroft's heart beating, tears stinging his eyes, "they are together. That's...it's g-good..that will...J-John will..." he held his breath as tears rolled down his cheeks, his heart twisting. 

"It...h-he'll f-forget me. That is what's..what's best f-for him. He can f-forget that I'm...he can forget. It's....that's g-good..it's...y-yes that's..." his breathing became chaotic as he held on to his brother. 

"This....this is...n-no more pictures then. This is the last."

Mycroft shook his head and took out the largest picture he had printed of John. 

"See this man? He loves you. Even if he is confused, even if he won't fancy you again, he loves you. He cares so much about you and it goes beyond wanting you to be safe. Listen..." Mycroft pinched the bridge of his nose and squeeze his eyes shut for a moment. 

"I can't help but think you should be less pessimistic. You don't hurt John as much as you think you do, and I guarantee he won't be able to forget you. It will be best for him and for you if you peruse a friendship with him."

Sherlock turned away from all the images of John, hiding against Mycroft. "I....Mary and..." his breathing hitched as he pushed down a sob, "I’m....glad he and Greg...h-happy for...it's g-good for..."

Sherlock was a selfish, selfish man doing his best to feel happiness for others even when it caused him considerable pain. Attempting to be happy for the two people he’d loved the most, and who’d most turned on him, proved too much. Sherlock’s voice cracked on a harsh sob and he curled his fingers into fists, shouting in agony against Mycroft’s chest. 

Mycroft had been right about one thing; John and Mary's relationship, while healthy for the two of them, had hurt Sherlock, even if he handled it well. Luckily, John had been understanding and continued to be active in Sherlock's life. 

Now, that wasn't the case. 

"He isn't romantic with Greg. Greg himself has said so. They love each other, yes, but they would never exclude you."

Sherlock dragged in a rough breath, shaking his head. 

"Tea and...no I...I c-can't again, like a...ch-charity I...no I...not again I...I don't even have th-the work nothing but...I...not again, My, n-not again. I can't....I can't...I..."

He tightened his grip, crying quietly as he shook, "I ...there...m-maybe if I can read again....I...can _be s-something_ again..maybe."

"It won't always be like this," Mycroft insisted yet again. "It won't be terrible for much longer. Look at how good things got for John! He went from unable to speak to laughing and drinking tea! Isn't that a good thing? Don't you believe it will happen to you?"

Sherlock shook his head. "No," he whispered, "no I...I'm not..I'm not l-like him....I have to....e-earn...I don't have...John has Greg and...Greg n-needs him. I...I hurt...I hurt."

He did not see a need to qualify his statements with supporting data. It was his base reality.  
Mycroft was filled with a sense of bitter self loathing as he struggled to come to terms with the fact that no matter what he was to Sherlock, no matter how perfect of a brother he was from here on out, he would never manage the level of comfort that John could give with just one smile, of a passing kind remark. 

"You don't hurt anyone. You are a wonderful man, and you are doing everything you can to keep everyone safe."

"Never enough...never...I...I love you I...can't keep....he w-will never love...never love me. He ssh-shouldn't. I'm...my fault....always...."

He dragged in a pained, sobbing breath. "I have to accept-l"

"Incorrect," Mycroft clipped sharply as he often had as a nagging youth. He'd viewed Sherlock as an idiot when they were young, and had gotten into the habit of correcting every wrong thing the boy said. 

He hadn't meant to clip, but Sherlock had the wrong idea, and he had no other way to express it clearly. 

"It is not your fault, and John loves you."

Sherlock drew back, recoiling from Mycroft. He wrapped his arms around himself, fingers in his mouth, rocking himself. He shut his eyes tight, trying to comfort himself.

"Oh, Sherlock... I'm sorry, 'Lock, I didn't mean it." 

Mycroft's chest seemed to be trying to cave in and his heart hammered. The older brother reached out to Sherlock, though he didn't pull him back. 

"I didn't mean that. I just wanted you to know that what you are thinking isn't right."

Sherlock flinched away, whimpering and pinching his eyes shut tight, tightening his arms around himself. 

"You...you won't see...I love him and so...I won't do this to h-him."

"Please, 'Lock, don't pull away from me. I'm only trying to help. Because you love him, you should seek friendship. John needs friends." 

Mycroft put his hand softly on Sherlock's shoulder and beckoned for him to come back into his arms.

Sherlock reached up and dragged his fingers into his hair, no longer drawing away from Mycroft now that it was clear he wasn't angry, simply starting to cry. He shook his head, hating what Mycroft was asking of him, pulling tight at his curls. He could likely make the mental break, sever John from his life and force himself to accept that John was gone, but he could not fathom a casual friendship that involved...Sunday visits and pity calls. It would be torturous to watch John make a life without him, standing at the sidelines, no longer relevant. 

Mycroft reached over and eased Sherlock's hands out of his hair. "Easy, Sherlock. It's okay. Are you sad because you are afraid to ask to be his friend, or because you want more?"

With his face pulled down in complete sadness, Sherlock nodded. Both of Mycroft's questions were applicable to how he was feeling. His breathing hitched and he tried to calm himself, pulling in a deep breath, squeezing Mycroft's hands.

"So, you want more than a friendship, like what you had, but you are also afraid to go to him?" Mycroft kept his voice low and soft. "Wouldn't a friendship be a middle ground?"

 

Sherlock shook his head, gripping Mycroft's hands as his own shook. "I...I can't," he whispered, trying once again to pull back into Mycroft's arms. It was too much. It was simply too much for him to consider. Sherlock had begged every person he’d ever had a friendship with to tolerate him, and to consider doing that with _John_ , who’d been the only person to accept him as he was...it was horrific. He could not endure it. 

Mycroft welcomed Sherlock back and hugged him to his chest. "I know, 'Lock, I know. But you will be able to. This fear is from the torment. John isn't as afraid of you as you think."

Sherlock thought back to the last time he'd seen John and shook his head, quietly crying with the picture clutched in his fist. 

"M-Molly and...and Stamford...Mrs. H-Hudson...he's okay...he...he will have f-forgotten by...by the time I...he's ok."

"That is a lie," Mycroft countered. "He will not forget you! He won't just be able to drop you out of his mind. He never even tried. Sherlock, I need you to trust me."

Sherlock flinched but did not draw away, curling his fingers to his lips and starting to rock in Mycroft's arms.

_Oh, don't worry Sherlock, John will never be able to forget you. All those scars...no, he'll always remember you, sweetheart._

Sherlock shook his head vigorously and clapped a hand over his ear, whimpering in distress. 

"Listen to _me_ , Sherlock, not him. You listen to me and understand that John has been greatly injured, but he is surviving. You are not functioning logically, but you will in time. For now, you need to trust my mind and know that you will have a friendship with John that will help him emotionally." 

Mycroft put his hand over Sherlock's ear as he spoke and wished he had Moran in the room to bloody. 

Sherlock did his best to ignore the laughter from the corner of the room, focusing on Mycroft's steady, if not elevated, heartbeat. He rocked in Mycroft’s arms, distressed but keeping as quiet as he could, grateful for his brother's hand over his ear. 

"I miss...I miss h-him," he sobbed, too frightened and afraid to give a damn about how child-like he sounded.

It was the truth, and it hurt. Even John's visits where he'd left crying had been better than this endless need to trust that John was safe and cared for, though the image helped steady those fears somewhat. 

He bit down on the tips of his fingers, parched, exhausted, and frightened. He had no hope at all that John would be anything more than a distant acquaintance, occasionally making mercy visits to Sherlock's room in Pal Mall. 

"Th-they've all...all f-forgotten...." he failed to finish the sentence, his breathing tripping over his grief as he cried. 

Mycroft had tears in his own eyes that tracked sideways down his face as Sherlock's grief forced past his barriers and stole his breath away. 

"I love you. I will not forget about you. John won't forget, and neither will Greg. He was always helping you through rough times, relapses and such, when you wouldn't let me near you. Now... he's got John, and that's wonderful for the man, but you need to understand that people _can_ have more than one close friend."

Sherlock did not respond for several minutes, carrying on rocking himself lightly, biting down hard on his fingers. Moran simply began to hum happily in the corner, the damage done. 

"His...his scars he...th-that's what I...that's h-how he'll...and G-Greg got so angry w-with me and...a-and Molly is g-gone and...they've m-moved on without...they've l-left me. They've left m-me."

Mycroft helped Sherlock rock himself and closed his eyes. "No, 'Lock, that won't be how he remembers you. He has memories, happy ones, of you and him doing nice things. You can make more memories with him once you get out, ones that will go over his scars and help him move on."

Sherlock just held onto Mycroft, quietly crying for the next half hour, chewing on his fingertips and doing his best to ignore Moran. There was a quiet knock at the door, finally breaking the grieved silence. 

"Mr. Holmes? We need to make your adjustments, I'm from orthopedics. Quick check of your legs and then I'll need to see your arm."

Mycroft snuggled Sherlock close to his chest and kissed the top of his head. "Sherlock, I have someone here who wants to help you. Will you cooperate?"

Sherlock kept his fingers in his mouth, looking up at the small woman before closing his eyes and burying back against Mycroft's chest, breathing his answer, "Y-yes,"as he nodded with a fearful whimper. 

Moran began to openly laugh, sounds of blade on whetstone filling the room as Sherlock's stomach twisted in panic. A light sheen of sweat was already breaking along his brow. 

The woman moved slowly, checking to ensure Sherlock had already been given pain medication. "I'll be as fast and gentle as I can,"she assured as she began to lift the blankets off Sherlock's feet. 

"N-No!" Sherlock instantly cried out, panic tearing through his chest, shaking his head and immediately trying to calm back down, "s-sorry...I'm sorry."

Mycroft had one hand pressed against Sherlock's back and the other over his ear. 

"Stay with me, 'Lock. Remember where you are. I'm here, and you are safe. You are in a hospital. Look up. There's a space poster. Remember that you are not with Moran. I had him killed. He was killed and you are safe."

Sherlock was quiet as small hands moved over his legs, whimpering in fear but otherwise quite, listening to his brother. When she turned his foot to get a look at his heel, he cried out in pain and began whispering to himself, "M-My has m-me...My h-has...has m-me...I'm...I'm ok...I'm..."

"This needs cleaning. I'm going to be as quick as I can, it may sting a bit, nothing major," she warned Mycroft. 

"Sherlock, I've got you. I've got you. Everything is alright." Mycroft rocked Sherlock as lightly as possible to keep his legs from shifting. 

"Do you remember how when you first met John, he shot someone to keep you safe? I shut down the investigation on who shot the cabbie, you know. Lestrade wasn't really that adamant about finding the guy, but it was easier for him if nobody had to go through the formalities."

Sherlock held to his brother and wept as the woman began to clean the still open wounds from where his heel had been cut into, nodding against Mycroft, not understanding why he was making him think of everything he'd lost. 

_I never guess._

_Yes, you do._

_Sherlock felt his heart swell, lurching in a way it had not done since he was a small boy as he took in the easy smile on the doctor's face. It was with a powerful shock that he realized that above all, he wanted to_ keep _this man. He turned up the collar on his Belstaff as they walked away from the crime scene, Sherlock for once not thinking of his next fix, interested only in taking the man to dinner._

He sobbed as she handled his foot, tensing as Moran began to speak. _Oh my,_ he whispered, clicking his tongue as he hovered over her shoulder, _if you get to walk on that mess again, you're going to be so slow, kitten. Poor man, that's not looking good at all. Wouldn't it be better if I just had it off here and now? Less dead weight for you to drag around._

"P-Please," he whispered, slowly losing sight of where he was. 

Mycroft grabbed the smaller picture of John, the one already a bit crumpled with white lines showing, and held it to Sherlock's hand. 

"John would want you to remember where you are. He would want you to stay calm and breathe. Remember how much he cared about you? He wouldn't want you to be confused. Don't listen to Moran. He can't hurt you."

Sherlock whimpered as he forced himself to open his eyes and look at the picture, biting on his fingertips as pain whispered up his leg. He began to shake, though he put his focus to the details of the image. 

"H-His hands m-must hurt him. Is...t-tell Greg to be-" he cried out again, sucking at his fingertips to comfort himself, mouth painfully dry as it had been while in Moran's custody, "h-he needs...they...they will ache he-" 

The woman carefully returned the blankets over his legs and moved to the side of his bed, apologetically looking to Mycroft. "Minor adjustment today," she whispered, needing access to Sherlock's damaged arm, which was currently tucked up against his chest, the fingers of that hand in Sherlock's mouth. 

Mycroft scanned the room for something to distract Sherlock with. "'Lock, would you like some water? I've got some for you, if you will let her help your arm, I will give you some water."

Sherlock _desperately_ wanted water. He also wanted to keep hold of his arm, to protect himself from pain. He pinched his eyes shut and shook his head as he cradled his arm protectively, his stomach twisting into knots. The loss of his fingers in his mouth made the thirst unbearable, though, and in the next moment, with great, wracking sobs he slowly offered her his arm, quaking with fear. He turned his face away, nearly gagging as he tucked the fingertips of his better hand between his lips, heavy, fat tears rolling down his cheeks. 

She took his wrist and very gently reached up with a small metal tool, quickly beginning the adjustments. The color drained from Sherlock's face as he wept bitterly, the feel of metal in his bone not particularly painful, but close enough to the sensation of remembered agony that he was not clear in his panic. 

"M-My," he sobbed, violently shivering from head to toe, "My!" 

Mycroft texted the assistant he kept on hand to bring him a bottle and a few small cups from the fountain nearby. He brought it to him and Mycroft held the small plastic cup to Sherlock's lips. 

"Here, have some water. Think about what is happening to you. There is a nurse, a kind, single mother who just transferred from the night shift, helping your arm. Helping, 'Lock, not hurting. You are safe in a hospital."

The small woman moved as quickly as she could without hurting Sherlock overly much, keeping quiet to avoid upsetting him further. Sherlock was greedy with the water, sipping as fast as he could around sobbing, hitching breaths. He did not pull away from her, though Mycroft's words did little to settle him. 

"Alright, that's done," she said quietly as she moved Sherlock's arm back to his chest, where he snatched it away, nearly spilling the water out of Mycroft's hand. He was a mess, struggling to breathe so he could drink, all while his stomach turned and he gasped for air, afraid he'd sick up and lose the water. 

Mycroft didn't want to risk another incident like the last time, and did not yet offer Sherlock another cup. "It's over. It's over. You've done beautifully, 'Lock. I am so proud of you for keeping your calm. You have come a long way and that was very frightening. I'm so proud. You're so strong."

Sherlock cradled his throbbing arm, which felt heavier and raw, but not particularly painful, and rocked himself as he shoved his fingertips back into his mouth, humming as he tried to soothe himself back down. The small woman let herself out of the room, leaving Sherlock crying against his brother and sucking on his fingers. He'd hidden the last swallow of water against his cheeks, tears rolling down his face as he savored the feeling of moisture stinging against all the places he'd chewed open, softening his sandpaper tongue. 

Mycroft couldn't have hoped for that to go better, and held Sherlock with both hope and crushing sadness. 

"I have some more water for you, if you think you are calm enough." 

Mycroft poured another small cup just over half way and held it out for Sherlock. 

"You did so well, 'Lock."

Sherlock whimpered and whispered a plea for water, swallowing and taking his fingers out of his mouth.

"Please, I...water I want...want w-water," he breathed, reaching for Mycroft and pulling against his shirt, tipping his forehead against Mycroft's breastbone and crying, "please," he added, knowing that offering his arm out to them had resulted in water earlier. 

He wept as he reluctantly offered his arm again, stomach rolling in anticipation of pain. "I..p-please I-" he hiccuped and kept his hand balled in a tight fist, expecting pain at any moment, "Please." 

Mycroft gently returned Sherlock's arm to his chest and patted his cheek. "Here, 'Lock." He brought the water to his lips and gently tipped it back. 

"It's alright. You can always have water. It was never an exchange, just a distraction. I will never make you pay for water or for medicine."

Sherlock killed the water in the next moment, drinking as fast as he could possibly make himself. He kept his arm tight to his own chest and when the water was gone he groaned in defeat and tried to draw up his knees, finding his feet still in their bindings. 

"Wh-when will...when...h-how l-long until...p-please I..." he shook his head, too many questions pulling at him at once, leaving him terribly frightened. 

"S-Scared, My...I want to g-go home, I don't...n-not my arm again I-" he buried against Mycroft as much as he could. 

"They...n-no one is doing th-this to J-John, right?"

Mycroft was actively hating himself for not being able to provide something better. 

"No, nobody is doing this to John. John is safe from...this. He's safe and happy. I still have pictures of him, happy videos too." 

Mycroft filled the cup up again, but only half way. He didn't want Sherlock to be sick again. "How are you feeling? Can you handle more water?"

Sherlock nodded, only focusing on _more water_ and nothing else. They were not doing this to John, and that was good...calming. He didn't need to worry about John. Greg had him, and Greg had been ready to toss Sherlock out a window over Sherlock's upsetting him before. 

"Why...am-m...is this b-because I did s-something wrong? I won't do it-t again if you tell m-me...I'll...My I'm t-trying to do what y-you want! I'm..." his voice cracked and he reached up, pulling at his hair.

_Of course you did something wrong. You're Sherlock, you do everything wrong. Idiot._

He whimpered and tugged harder at the strands, "I'm s-sorry, My...f-forgive me I'm...I'm trying." 

Mycroft gave Sherlock the cup of water and directed it to his lips. "I love you. You didn't do anything wrong. This is not a punishment. Honestly, 'Lock, this is a necessary part of healing. It's not a punishment." 

With a dejected sigh, Mycroft pulled up some soft music on his phone to help pass the time. Vivaldi's Winter played lightly on the small speakers. 

"You should get some rest."

Sherlock pushed his fingers into his lips nervously, sucking on the ends of them as he watched disappointment spread across Mycroft's face while the music played. He whimpered and tucked down on the bed, wrapping his arms tight around himself and closing his eyes, deeply frightened as he saw how much he was letting his brother...his only _protection_ , down. He was determined not to mess up again, stopping himself from rocking as he gave Mycroft space, forcing himself to attempt rest. 

_How many weeks has it been since anyone came to see you, hell, even called to see if you were well? You've been forgotten by everyone without a familial obligation to you, Sherlock. They are better off without you. You make life overly difficult, look how sad you've made your big brother. I'm glad I didn't kill you, you needed to see this before your heart stopped, needed to feel how easy you are to walk away from. That pain?_ His chest twinged hard as though a hot poker had been pressed over his heart, Moran's breath all Brandy and cigarettes surrounding him. _That's what forgettable feels like. Will you even have the dexterity to kill yourself?_

He was quiet as grief slowly contorted his features, heavy tears sliding down his cheeks, silent as he listened to Moran tell him truths about himself. 

Mycroft's brow furrowed when Sherlock drew away and he reached out for him. "Sherlock, what's wrong? If this is about John, or if Moran is talking again, I'd like you to tell me what is happening." 

What was it Paul had said? He'd said that it was important to make sure that they felt loved. Mycroft was already in bed holding Sherlock, so there wasn't much else he could think to do. 

"Please, 'Lock, I love you. Tell me what's wrong "

Sherlock whimpered and leaned harder into his brother. "I...y-you're dis-disappointed and...I...if I m-make you...you're all- all I h-have. They're...all of...g-gone...they...I can't m-make you...I l-let you down and you're all I h-have. When you...you are gone th-that's i-it, I'm alone." There was no question of _if_ in Sherlock’s mind. His brother would leave him, he was absolutely sure of it. Simply a matter of _when_ , and he decidedly was _not ready._

Mycroft leaned away briefly and pulled up his laptop from his bag. 

"Look, 'Lock. Look at what I am doing." 

Mycroft pulled up his email and quickly began to draft his resignation notice. 

"If, in six months, you still want me around, I will send this." He pulled up another letter he had already written, requesting six months off. "See this? I'm with you for half a year either way."

Sherlock stared at the screen and then closed his eyes, shaking and clinging to his brother. "I c-can't...can't r-read them...." The reminder ripped at his sense of autonomy, unable to even read the letters on the screen, not seeing them as anything other than pointless lines. 

_I'm with you for half a year either way._

"I..I'll...in-n six...six m-m-months I'll h-have st-stopped di-disapointing...I w-won't be so b-bad at m-making you happy then. I'll t-try harder...I'll try...try harder."

Mycroft read a bit of it aloud and swore at himself internally as his voice continued on smoothly. "I'm not counting on you making me happy, 'Lock, I'm going to make you happy."

Sherlock listened to his brother read, closing his eyes as he understood that Mycroft was willing to permanently sacrifice his career for him. He held tight to Mycroft's shirt as tears ran down his cheeks, soaking into the material. Everyone else had abandoned him, but his brother was going to stay, and that was far more than he deserved. 

"Thank...thank y-you, My. You're n-not...not like...you're not like th-them. You...you t-truly l-love me? I-" his voice broke and he sobbed in quiet relief, deeply needing to know that he didn't have to earn it, "e-even if-f I can't...do a good j-job you'll...y-you w-will stay?"

Mycroft smiled genuinely as Sherlock began to comprehend. "Of course. You don't need to do a damn thing. You don't need to do better. I'll stay with you and keep loving you no matter what." He pressed a kiss to Sherlock's forehead and closed his eyes. 

"You're my little 'Lock."

Sherlock scrambled quite suddenly to curl better into against his brother, holding on tight as he pressed his face down over Mycroft's heart and cried, relief washing over him like a great, soothing wave. He kept his arm close to his own chest, protecting it, but relaxed his body as he came to slowly understand that Mycroft was going to stay, that he didn't have to do anything to keep him. 

"I l-love you, brother," he whispered against the material of Mycroft's shirt. 

Mycroft closed his eyes and tears slipped down his face. "I love you too, 'Lock. I love you too. I'll always stay with you, no matter what. You're my baby brother. I'll always defend and protect you."

Sherlock held tight to his brother until his strength began to fail. He shivered as some of the stress abated, soothed in the knowledge that Mycroft was not at risk, at least at present, of leaving him. He was quiet for the next ten minutes, slowly drifting back off to sleep. 

Miller came back into the room soon after Sherlock's breathing evened out, napping against Mycroft's chest. Miller looked over the men and nodded to Mycroft. "How is he?"

Mycroft wiped tears from his eyes when Miller returned and scooped Sherlock closer into his arms. 

"He's...he's deeply sad, but beginning to understand and accept me as his primary companion."

Miller nodded, moving to Sherlock's side and starting to examine him in his brother's arms, very careful not to wake him. "That is promising. He's really in need of hope. I commend you for your tireless efforts, Mycroft. I know he is your brother, but there are many siblings who would never go to these lengths. You are a good man, and he is lucky to have you." 

Sherlock stirred enough to bury closer to Mycroft, whimpering softly in his sleep and settling again. Miller stepped back, not wanting to wake him. 

"Is there anyone who'd be willing to visit with him? Paul is tied up with another patient, but asked me to ask you." 

Mycroft buried his face in Sherlock's hair and breathed deeply. "He has Molly, a nice young girl, and Mrs. Hudson. I could call them soon. Honestly, I don't think that Mrs. Hudson could handle the screaming, but she loves him dearly, and would fuss over him endlessly if she came."

Miller made note of what Mycroft was saying, texting to Paul. "He made a call to Mrs. Hudson before, did he not? I'll pass this on to Paul, who will make his way up here as soon as he can. Medically, he's doing much better than the day before. His pacemaker has only activated a handful of times today. His heart is taxed, but swiftly improving. I'm honestly impressed. He remained calm in your absence, another point to celebrate. He is improving despite the odds. We will draw another set of labs later today to see how he's faring, but I'd like to get him eating sooner rather than later. If you think you can get him at some broth today, that would be good. Do you need anything? I can have nearly anything sent up."

Mycroft shifted and pulled Sherlock flush against his chest for his own comfort. "I will notify them both that their assistance might be needed. Hopefully, I can bring them in for some fresh company. I don't think I need anything, but it might be a good idea to have a little stereo brought in. Other than that...no, I've everything I need."

Miller nodded and left the pair of them alone, gently closing the door behind him. The room was cool and dimly lit, soft blipping on the monitors and Sherlock's deep, even breathing breaking the silence. Sherlock had not laid so limp and breathed so calm and rhythmically without medication since his return. Mycroft's assurances had deeply soothed him, touching something cold and panicked in his chest and easing it down. He slept on for the next two hours, and when he woke, it was with a slow, deep inhalation and a return of tension to his muscles. 

Mycroft fell asleep next to Sherlock nearly twenty minutes later, his head tucked next to Sherlock's and his arms wrapped loosely around his baby brother.

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------


	31. Chapter 31

John spent a long time trying to comfort Greg. After he had finished massaging Greg's head, he worked down his neck and to his shoulders. 

"If you lie down, I can work on your back too."

Greg shifted and hummed happily, shifting so that he was on his stomach. He pillowed his head against his arms and closed his eyes, the pain in his head much relieved from John's fingers and the medication. 

"This is really quite amazing of you to do for me, John, thank you." 

John's hands were sore and tired, but he couldn't be damned. He was helping Greg, and loved every second of it. 

"I'm happy to be helpful. I haven't gotten a chance to work on someone in ages. You're wonderful to let me." John worked at the top of Greg's shoulders and very slowly worked down his spine. 

"You're so tense. I should do this often."

Greg could feel how much John's hands were shaking, and nearly said something to stop him, but John was so happy to do something that it was worth it just to let him be happy. If his hands cramped up, Greg would fix them. He hummed in response, doing his best to appear as relaxed and unguarded as possible, wanting John to see that he was comforting Greg deeply. He was quite sure he'd not be able to endure another round of the hell from the day before. If John was happy, then Greg would do anything to keep him that way. 

"You can do this whenever you like." 

John decided he would massage Greg any time he wanted to. 

"Often. Every day. Twice a day. Greg, I'll do whatever you want. I love helping. I feel useful, and it feels good." 

John was at Greg's lower back now, which was so tight it felt like wires. He could feel all the muscles under Greg's skin, and John recanted his hatred of his sensitive fingertips he had developed months before.

Greg was again close to tears as John worked him over. It was painful, but in a wonderful way. The muscles had been locked up tight for months on end without release, and he was doing something that made John sound hopeful. He kept his face pillowed down in his arms and inhaled deeply, using his breathing to help him slowly relax. 

For whatever reason, his mind went to Sherlock. He swallowed around the lump in his throat, recalling how Sherlock had lain just as he was, on the sofa though, locked in Baker Street on film so that John would know he wasn't coming for him. He wondered after him, what was happening in hospital, how he was faring. He knew he shouldn't be, shouldn't allow himself to entertain thoughts of his other friend, but John's fingers loosing his muscles were also working into memory that Greg was helpless to fight. 

"If your hands start hurting, we can take a break, okay?" He whispered after a while, heart heavy as his victory in helping John find hope was tempered with his loss of Sherlock. 

John found a tense muscle, so taught it could have been a cable, and he began to work on it from either side before moving to the tightest part. He was aware that during intense massages, where there was a great physical release, there could also be an emotional one. He'd seen people break down crying, or laughing, after intense massages, and while he'd never been a professional, hadn't really gotten _that_ good, he took pride in the mental relaxation he believed himself to provide. 

"My hands are tired, but this is good for them. It's not cramped or anything, just tired. I'll be fine. You can help me with them tomorrow or later tonight." 

Greg nodded as tears slowly began to drip from his lashes, hitting the pillow under his folded arms. He breathed in deep and slow, careful not to allow himself much of a display, silently begging forgiveness as joy for John gave way to crushing failure for Sherlock. How would they manage him, alone and forgotten? Would he even make it out of the hospital before-

"Could you talk to me?" He asked abruptly, helpless to do anything for Sherlock and not wanting to think on it any longer, "Please? I- about anything?"

John finished with the few tight muscles and simply began to rub up and down Greg's back in slow, calming motions. 

"Yeah, Greg. Of course." John scrambled for something to talk about, as his nerves about messing things up were still quite high. 

"You know, on that first case, when you and I first met, I knew I was out of place. Donovan was a bit of an arse, and Anderson dismissed me, but you were decent and I had no friends. Never figured you'd turn out to be so much fun on a crawl. Wasn't my first impression, you know? But I hope you remember the first crawl we went on, because after the fourth pub I start to get a bit hazy."

Greg smiled quietly as he recalled that first pup crawl he and John went on together. It had been an interesting night and they'd both been so pissed that it was too hard to walk, managing to stumble into cab at the end, narrowly avoiding sicking up in the street. It had been a grand night, and a terrible hangover, and he and John had been fast friends after that. 

"Always knew you'd outdrink me," he whispered quietly, the fond amusement clear in his tone over the pain he was in. 

"You managed ten numbers that night, you're a terrible wingman," he laughed at the recall, getting turned down himself left, right, and center. Sherlock had been less than thrilled with him the next day for having gotten his doctor so drunk, but the night had been priceless. 

John laughed and gently worked back up to Greg's shoulders. It had been a wonderful night, despite the stumbling ending and blinding headache the next morning. 

"It's the dog tags, mate. They always fall for a man wearing dog tags. I don't know what it is, but it always got me numbers." 

John bent down and pressed a kiss between Greg's shoulder blades, though he wasn't quite sure why the situation called for it. 

"And as for being a wingman...I suppose I should apologize, but you turned out to be such a great wingman yourself, I was a bit distracted." John snickered then, and wondered if he'd ever go on a crawl again. Perhaps it would be nice. 

Greg's heart rolled over as John kissed him. "The tags, yeah, they help I'm sure. Sometimes my badge got me a bit of attention." 

He rumbled an amused laugh and chose to not overthink the press of warm lips at the center of his back. John was doing him such a kindness, taking care of him, and he was not going to overanalyze it. He inhaled slowly and exhaled again, nodding to himself. This had to be okay. Sherlock...this had to be okay. There was no way he was going to be able to help them both. It had to be...had to be okay. John refused to allow Paul or any of his nursing staff in the flat thus far, and he was alone in caring for John as a result. Without help, it had to be okay. He slowly pushed himself so that he could turn over, staring up at John, taking a moment to very seriously take in the man. 

He was worth it. This was worth it. "You're...you're my best mate, John. I'm so happy you're with me."

John removed his hands to let Greg turn over and smiled at him warmly. This joy was much needed after his days in a comatose state, his frantic attempt to escape and hide from Greg to keep him from his pain, and his utter devastation with the lists.

John leaned down and laid his head against Greg's chest happily. "Really, I'm so lucky to have you. I'd be so lost without you. Thank you for promising to stay. I needed that. I need you to stay."

Greg wrapped his arms around John, sinking his fingers into John's hair as he rubbed John's back slowly. "You couldn't tear me away. Not going anywhere," he assured once more, pressing a kiss to the top of John's head. He lay there with him, breathing calmly with salt tracks drying on his cheeks, wondering how the man who'd been so ruthlessly cruel to him the day before and this man were one in the same. 

He did not speak for quite some time, just enjoying the peace. Finally he remembered that they were supposed to be eating, and he sat up slowly. 

"You need food. Can you eat something," he whispered quietly, deeply cautious. He would not be able to endure another round with John's anger today. 

"Yes." John didn't hesitate for a second. He would do whatever it took to make Greg happy. 

"Let's have something to eat, and maybe we can see the birds later. I'm feeling much better today." 

John nuzzled his face down on Greg's chest and enjoyed the feeling of another human being so close to him. 

"Anything you want. I'll try washing with water today too, if you'd like. Maybe I can get used to the sponge a bit quicker if I try it every day. It's been a while since I last tried."

Greg nodded, pointing to the yogurt and applesauce they'd brought in with the tea. "That sounds good, John, really good. We'll get you back up in no time. I love you, thank you for trying this." He offered John a cup of yogurt, "this will help get your gut flora back in order, need to get this damned tube out of your nose. I can't wait for you to remember how good it feels not to have it there. Sponge is a good idea too." 

He sat next to John, hip to hip, and clicked on the little telly in his room to provide a distraction while they tucked into their food. 

John took the cup and the spoon off the tray. He leaned against Greg and happily began to eat, even if it was slowly. "I'm glad you're here for me. It makes this easier." The yogurt took a long time to eat, and he had to put it down several times to keep calm, but he got it down without crying, which John took to be a good sign. It was progress either way, and John rested his head on Greg's shoulder. 

"It's all getting easier."

Greg held John against him for the next half hour, watching the telly absently, giving him time to settle after eating. "Your little birds miss you, do you want to visit them?"

John got up abruptly and stood by the edge of the bed. "Yes! Yes, let's. Let's go outside right now. I'd love to see them. Maybe you can try! I'm sure you'd be good at it."

Greg smiled at him and stood up, following John down the hall. It was remarkable what real food did for the man. He stopped off at the kitchen and grabbed a stack of bread, worrying over the groceries. Mycroft would be unlikely to provide more while occupied with Sherlock...if he was even there any longer, and Greg would not be able to leave John yet. He tucked that concern away for later, debating texting Molly for help. 

He followed John outside and settled the bread next to John's thigh on the bench, watching the little birds hop about, invigorated from the rains that had passed. He leaned back, seriously doubting that he'd be any good at all with the little things given his track record with John, wanting to just watch the man work his magic on the little creatures. 

John sat as he usually did, leaned back on the bench with his eyes on the birds. It didn't take him long to pick out the little starling, which also recognized that the humans meant food, and hopped a bit closer. 

"You should try today, Greg. He's already okay with people, and I bet he can't tell between you and me." 

John picked out a piece of bread and tossed one piece close to his starling and the rest to the other birds to draw them off and single out his favorite. 

Greg worried his lip between his teeth, hands instantly starting to tremer. What if he scared the little thing off and ruined the one bit of happiness there was for John? He shoved one hand under his thigh and looked over to John, looking swiftly away in the next moment. 

"I- you're much...much better at...you'd likely make him happier than I- I'm- he's your little bird, I will watch you." 

John coaxed his bird forward until they hit another line it wouldn't cross, and he had to move more slowly. "You could choose your own, then. Or not. If you don't want to, that's fine. It's fun for me, so I thought you might like it too."

Greg watched John with his little bird and nervously reached over taking a bit of bread and starting to throw it at a distance for the little birds in the background. John sounded disappointed, and Greg felt a wash of familiar nerves as he began to participate, afraid now that if he didn't he'd run the risk of upsetting John further. He did not single out a bird, rather he tossed tiny bits of bread at the eager little crowd, which seemed to have grown in days past, no effort to lure any of them in. 

John had his little bird close to his feet and began the slow process of leaning down and putting his hand on the ground without scaring the bird off. It took another ten minutes, but John had it on his hand, though he was still bent fully over. 

"He's getting more used to me," John breathed in a voice just above a whisper. "Isn't he wonderful? Look how brave he's gotten." John dropped a little piece of bread and the bird caught it in the air.

Greg watched John with something tight and painful balled up in his chest. He nodded, not wanting to upset John, and then picked up his mobile and snapped another picture, wanting to keep a better photographic record of John anyhow. He had no idea if he should carry on sending the images to Mycroft, but he was glad to have them for himself. 

"He's getting very brave, that's remarkable John."

Very slowly and very carefully, John brought his hand back up to his chest where he could comfortably hold the bird. 

"Hello, little guy," he said quietly as the bird ate a tiny bit of bread. It didn't pay John's voice any mind, and continued to hop in little circles on his palm. It took another three minutes for the movement, but John transferred the bird to sit on his knee where he sprinkled a few crumbs. John leaned back then, content, and decided not to stress the bird further. 

"If I sit like this, I can relax, and he can relax, and then I don't have to worry about scaring him off while he keeps getting used to me."

Greg took several quiet pictures as John managed to coax the little thing to sit with him. He did not speak for a long while, overly worried that he'd run the little thing off. "That's really...really something, John." 

_Sherlock sat quietly in the corner of John's room, dressed as a physician, keeping himself silent as music played, hoping to get John acclimated to him._

Greg drew in a sharp breath and closed his eyes as his heart dropped out. Sherlock would have been able to manage this. It occurred to Greg then, in that moment, that he'd been a selfish bastard allowing Sherlock to go with Moran while he rescued John. It should have been flipped. 

"You're...you're good with him," Greg whispered, his throat tight and hands shaking as they seemed to want to always do now. 

John heard the tension in Greg's voice and noted the sharp inhale with concern. He showed the bird a piece of bread, then tossed it back with the others. Bird be damned. His priority was Greg. John leaned over and wrapped his arms around his friend, his protection, his love, and gave a slow sigh. 

"I don't know what you are sad about, but if it's something I can do better, something I can change, let me know and I will." 

Greg leaned into John and closed his eyes, tucking his face down against John's shoulder. 

"It's not...not anything you're doing wrong, John. I'm..." he quietly filled his lungs, sad that John had caught the tension. For a few seconds he simply allowed himself time to marvel that John was holding him and trying to comfort him, leaning into his warmth, wrapping his arms tight around John as he fought off tears. He was bloody well losing it. 

"It's about something different and I'm...I shouldn't trouble you with it."

John pulled Greg closer and gently ran his hands up and down his back. 

"I'd like to hear about it, if it isn't too much trouble. I like being helpful. Maybe I can help." 

It was clear that Greg needed comfort, and even if John couldn't offer verbal advice, he could still be a benefit in other ways. John held Greg and rocked ever so slightly, as the motion had always felt good to him and he couldn't imagine anyone not liking it.

Greg kept his eyes closed and hid his face against John's neck, breathing as slow and deep as he could manage. The comfort was terribly needed after so much prolonged stress, with Greg's nerves rubbed raw and boiled down to nothing. He moved in closer and savored the moment, mentally scrambling to remind himself that he wasn't to take comfort from John, and then admonishing himself for thinking that way, recalling the trouble it had gotten him into. 

"I...you with the bird just....just reminded me of him and I'm...it made me sad is all."

"Oh." John kept hold of Greg, but his attitude changed a bit. He was still warm and loving, but sadness had laced his heart. Thoughts of Sherlock had been abolished from his mind the past few days, as he had so strongly and so suddenly latched on to the need to protect Greg that there was no room for anything else. 

"He's in a bad place. I know it. Greg... when Sherlock gets out, will it do him good in the long run for me to force my company on him while it hurts both of us so I can be with him more later on, or stay away and save him the pain but also rob him of the comfort?" 

Greg shrugged, honestly not knowing. 

"I can't save the both of you while you can't be in the same room together. I feel...he...he was like you are with the bird. He would have been able to help you so much better than me. He knew what you know, he'd started the moment you were out of your first wave of surgeries. I...I am sorry I...I keep trying to accept that I've lost him, but I feel like I've just betrayed him. He's..." _he's going to die_ , "I'm sorry, you really don't need this right now."

John looked over at the birds and found himself envying their ability to fly. He thought of wings, what it would be like to have then, then quickly grounded himself. Now was not the time to slip into fantasy, no matter how appealing it sounded. "Greg... If anyone betrayed Sherlock, it's me. First, I failed to see that my leaving was upsetting him. Then, I believed Moriarty that he was torturing me. Then, I panicked when I saw him even after I knew the truth. Then, I rejected his help because he scared me. Then, I let him go and get tortured and still can't be with him properly." 

John's heart ached sharply each time he thought of all the pain he had caused the already broken man. 

"All you've done is save me over and over again."

Greg sat up, hating that he'd upset John so deeply, and pulled him back into his arms. 

"I'm sorry, this isn't fair. I just...my guilt is my own, not yours. You did the best you could and he knows that. I'm just wondering if I've done everything I could...I miss him and I- ach, no, this isn't fair to you. I am sorry, John, I should have stayed quiet. Do you want to keep out here with your little birds or would you like to go in and watch a bit of telly and try a bit of food?"

John tipped his head forward and rested it against Greg's shoulder. 

"There's nothing I can do for him right now, is there? I'm sort of trapped, just waiting. I don't think I could handle going to see him in the hospital, but I want to help him."

Greg angled his head to look at John in surprise. 

"You do?" He pressed a kiss to John's temple to comfort him, not wanting him feeling bullied or pressured.

"He's still...doing a lot of screaming, I don't know if there is anything anyone can do for him. It's been a while since I spoke with Mycroft, I can-"

He cut off, suddenly worried he was saying too much. "You...meant 'someday,' didn't you? I'm sorry, John, I'm...would it upset you if I just called to talk to him from time to time? I don't want him to feel forgotten, if he doesn't already."

John looked at his hands and knotted them together. 

"I...well, I mean whenever I'm able, I guess. I feel kinda useless to him at the moment..." 

John smiled to keep the depressed look off his face and tried to continue happily. 

"But that's alright. I'll be better. I'll do better. Next time I see him, I'll give him a hug, and I'll show him his lucid I am, and I'll have tea with him, and I'll tell stories and we'll be happy like you and I are."

Greg openly smiled at John, pulling him in for a warm hug. 

"You are just incredible, you know that? Brilliant, that's perfect John, all he'll need from you every now and again. You're fantastic. Not useless to him, healing yourself will greatly help Sherlock. The more healed you are, the more help it will be to him."

John grinned into Greg's shoulder and relished the affection. "So, because I can't help him now, I should just work on being a functioning person for when he gets back?" 

John clung to the idea mentally, as he needed to feel like he was helping Sherlock to ease the chunk of icy guilt that had lodged itself in his heart. 

Greg kissed the top of John's head again with a warm, relieved smile, inhaling the scent of him. "Can you imagine how relieved he'd be to see you without a tube in your nose or a port in your hand? It will help him not worry over you so severely and show him that he can heal too. Yeah, John, you healing helps you, helps me, and helps him. You are so far from useless."

John reached up and touched the capped tube in his nose and considered what it would mean to take it out. 

"That would really help him? If I got rid of these, it would make him worry less... And you talk about it, so you must want it too. I could help you both by getting rid of them." 

John was tempted to remove it now. 

"I should do that. I need to help you." With a goal in sight, he had a mind to get to work. The only thing that caused him to pause was the thought of just how much stress he would have to go through. 

Greg caught John's hand, terrified for a moment that he was just going to rip the tube out, which would surely tear the delicate lining in his airway and cause him to bleed. When it was clear John wasn't about to do that without proper care, Greg pulled John's hand to his lips and kissed him slowly, finally letting his hand fall away. 

"You have been working on it. You are eating every day, with the exception of the few...difficult ones we've had. You are eating, and we keep working at it, and the tea is nearly enough to keep you hydrated. We just have to add a few different things, but you are getting there. You really are. It's not that you need to do much more than keep on with what you've been doing, that's it, John. You've already climbed the mountain, we just have to get adapted to the air up here is all." 

John let Greg take his hand and a small part of him twinges. "I won't...I-" John closed his eyes and decided it was completely logical for Greg to worry he might rip out his tubes. 

"I'm feeling good right now," he explained, "I'm clear. I can think."

It was sad to remember that eating properly was still his mountain to climb, even when he could speak rationally and think clearly, but he needs to face it sooner rather than later. 

"Could I have some bread? I should just...Jesus, that would make the day hard... Do you think I should eat a little all day, or all at once so I can get it over with and have peace?"

Greg trailed his fingers over John's temple, gently speaking to him. 

"Not all at once. Look at today, alright? Not the days before today, just..just as we've been. You ate breakfast, a normal breakfast, and now we've been out here doing something nice and you are calm. Then we will go in and I'll serve you an egg and maybe a bit of bread, and then you can help me with my back or I can rub your hands and we can watch something absurd, and then at dinner we can try something light, maybe broth and a bit of juice or milk. It will not be so nerve wracking after a little while, John. We've just not really tackled it yet." 

John leaned into Greg's touch and his eyes slowly closed. 

"So three times a day? Jesus, that still sounds awful. I just want to never eat. But I want to recover. It's human nature to try and get away from things that cause pain, right? It's normal for me to want to stay away from it. But now, I want to get better. I'll have there a day until you think I should go off the tube. I want to move on. But..." John's face clouded and he looked at Greg with shame. 

"What if I accidentally get lost again? Can... we need to...to explore the possibility of me not being able to eat and... do you know how to put the tube in?"

Greg looked down at his lap, shaking his head. 

"It's...no, that's a tricky thing to...you'd...I'd have to call Miller to do that if you...if I lose you again." He closed his eyes, not at all wanting to discuss this again. John was so sure that Greg was going to fuck up, that he wanted a contingency plan for when he slipped back into his mind indefinitely. 

"I..." he cleared his throat, trying to brush away the feeling of inadequacy, "if that happens, I'll call Miller." 

John had his head down as well and took a moment to let the sadness pass. "I'll try really hard not to panic again," John said quietly and absently rubbed at a scar on his arm. "It just gets hard sometimes and I can't think. I can feel it,and sometimes I want to push through like with the water, but sometimes I can't recover or I go too far." 

Greg’s endurance for the pitfalls was running thin and short. He closed his eyes and took a few minutes to breathe, mirroring John's efforts at self control. His knee began to bounce as he put all his attention to breathing and riding out the wave of twisting failure, struggling to keep steady. 

"Alright, John," he said quietly, wondering how he'd managed to tank them down so harshly, so swiftly, "I know it's...it's hard and it feels better to leave. I know." 

He watched as John folded his hands in his lap and stared at the gnarled scar tissue that disfigured the skin. 

"That’s why I don't like eating and drinking sometimes, because it pushes me to panic." But he hadn't panicked before, so there must be something else. John pushed his mind to figure out an answer and he was met again with the same wall. 

"I...But sometimes I disconnect? Sometimes I don't panic? I don't know why. Maybe when it's my fault, and I'm the one doing bad things, it's easier to just shut down and stop hurting everyone, or maybe it's because it's safer in my mind, or..." John drew in a sharp, shaking inhale and covered his face with his hands.

Greg felt his chest tighten and twist with threatening panic. "We don't have to talk about it, John. We...it's fine, it's all okay. I have been pushing you too hard and you...it's okay, John. It is, please, just breathe, we don't have to talk about this. We don't have to talk about it. Let me...oh, John, please let me fix this." 

John scrubbed his hands down his face and looked up at the ceiling for a moment as his thoughts cleared. 

"Okay. I don't...I can't just be fixed. It's more complicated than that, I think." 

It occurred to John that perhaps Greg, like himself, felt best when he was being useful. "But I'd like it if you'd work on my hands for a bit. That would help a lot."

Greg bit down harshly on the inside of his cheek and instantly reached for John's hand, taking it in his own trembling ones and starting in on working over the tissues, a bit less skilled than he managed when calm. He stared down at John's fingers as he worked the pads of his own along a line of scar tissue he'd seen John rub constantly, his vision blurred as he forced himself to breathe slowly. After a few minutes of working he whispered, so quiet he could hardly hear himself. 

"I...I didn't mean fix...fix _you_ I m-meant..." he shook his head, swallowing hard around the panic, "I'm sorry, it was a stupid thing to say." 

John could feel Greg's tension, his stress, and it upset him quite easily. "I know, I know what you meant, I just meant to say... I get it. I understand that you want to help. I want to help you too. I always want to help. But sometimes, there's not much to be done. It's in my head a lot." 

Greg kept himself quiet, his stomach twisting up in nauseated tension as he lost control of the situation, knowing he'd done something foolish once again,and John was...he couldn't tell if John was close to screaming at him and demanding Greg say things that would hurt him, or if John was about to slip away, back into his own mind. 

Either way, the warm calm of the morning was little more than a whisper. He carried on working over John's hand, hoping that a Head Down, Mouth Shut approach might salvage whatever it was that he'd managed to do. 

John couldn't understand Greg's silence and leaned his head back on the couch. He was so damn _tired_ of all the sadness, the random depression that hit them both even when the day had been going good, and of the never ending threat that something might trigger him. John felt that it was all due to himself and his frailty, and tears began to roll down his cheeks. 

"Thank you for working on my hands," John said in a voice that might have been cheerful if his breath hadn't hitched. "You're wonderful."

Greg nodded, keeping his attention down at John's hand. "I didn't intend to...to upset you John I-" he cleared his throat and just carried on moving, too afraid to make a miscalculation and upset him further. 

"We're both hurting," John explained and let Greg work his hand. It was already helping, and John was grateful, but he had already expressed that with little result. 

"It's not your fault that I'm not always happy. I just get sad. Just...Just remember what happened to me, and you'll remember that maybe I'm not sad about something _you_ did."

Greg's hands stilled on John's and he was forced to hold his breath, closing his eyes and allowing the harsh wave of John’s words to wash over him. Angry John it was, then. Half a minute ticked by before Greg opened his eyes and resumed both moving and breathing. 

"I never have to remember, John," he whispered, working his fingers over an area that looked as though he'd had damn nails driven into the tissues, "because I never forget. I am sorry if I've given you that impression."

John closed his eyes and tried to re-work his words in his mind. He'd only been trying to take the blame for his sadness of Greg, but it hadn't seemed to work. They were both deeply damaged, and neither was functioning ideally. 

"I'm...No, I didn't think you had, but... Greg, you blame yourself when I get sad like you're the one who hurt me in the first place. I'm not hurting because of you. I'm hurting because of Moriarty."

Greg was at John's wrists, working over where John had been ruthlessly bound and struggled terribly, leaving circular scars in many different locations and depth-levels around his wrists. He brushed his thumb over the ragged tissue, wishing he could erase the damage. Instead, he began to gently work the skin, ensuring the tissue did not granulate too severely. 

"I know I didn't...didn't do this initially. But I...I was the cause of the last...lapse...and I put those tears on your face today. I make you cry, and I make you run. Much of this is my doing, and I...I am sorry for it." 

John slowly moved his damaged hands out of Greg's and rested them on his shoulders. "No, Greg, no it isn't. You can't help that I'm damaged. Is this your fault?" 

He held out his palm and gestured to the array of puckered scars. While he was trying to redirect Greg, he was unaware of his own tortured voice in Greg’s mind. 

_You should have come for me!_

Greg swallowed as John held up his hand, displaying the scars that Greg had just been paying very careful attention to. He spoke very softly, "That's...debatable." 

John shook his head. "No, these are not your fault. You cannot take responsibility for these. Moriarty did this with a spike so I'd stop trying to pull my arm away. You did not do this. Please, understand that. You had nothing to do with this scar, and you have nothing to do with the ones inside my head."

Greg nodded, dropping his eyes to his lap. He knew he'd not tortured John, but he was doing a bang-up job of making it worse, day after day. 

"If he were alive, I'd kill him again. Sometimes I envy Sherlock for that." 

He spoke to his feet, skin crawling, gut twisted up tight. He may not have put the scars there, but he was exacerbating them. 

John leaned over and kissed Greg's temple. When he spoke, he didn't draw away, instead stayed where he was and spoke into Greg's hair line. 

"You didn't do this to me. I know who did this to me. I thought it was Sherlock, but I know better now. I know who did this and it was _not_ you. You're wonderful, and I love you."

Greg leaned slightly against John, savoring the moment and closing his eyes. 

"I love you as well," he breathed, taking John's hand back between his own and starting in on the muscle again. 

"I know I've no right to struggle, I...I feel like a complete prat, I do. This...I've no right. I am sorry." 

"What I went through does not invalidate what you are going through," John explained quietly. He took a moment to study Greg, his mannerisms, his speech, his moods, and found it starkly different from the Greg he had known before. 

_I did that._

"You help me more than you know, and now I can see the effect I've had on your life. I see now what I've done to you, in full, and I am sincerely sorry for it." 

John clenched his teeth together and took deep breathes through his nose to keep himself steady as the damage he had done, not just short term, like making Greg cry, but the long term, the mental scarring he had given Greg hit him all at once. 

Greg looked up at John, a shock of icy panic threatening to steal his breath away. 

"No, John I- no you've not done anything wrong! I...I am just stressed, you've not- you are m-my best mate and I'd be lost without you. I- no, John I don't know where your mind is taking you but I'm okay, I'm okay! Please, you've n-nothing to be sorry for. John...please. I love you, I just want to help." 

He stared at John, deeply frightened that he'd driven him back into some need to run. "Please, I'm sorry, let me f-" he swallowed the word down as his breathing stuttered out, dropping his eyes to his lap as he ground down on his cheek, "I'm being an idiot...everything is okay." 

John wanted to help Greg, but everything he said was being twisted and spoken so terribly wrong when he tried to articulate it. The pain on Greg's face brought tears to John's eyes and they fell down his face despite his efforts to be happy for his friend. 

_You aren't giving him what he wanted! All he wanted was for you to be happy. Can you not even manage that? It was one simple request, just one, and you managed to mess it up again._

John tried for a smile, but it failed grievously and only added to his stress. 

"I'm trying t-to be happy because you wanted that," he whimpered and began to cry. The urge to turn away and hide his tears was strong, but he didn't want to hurt Greg further. 

"I would d-do anything f-for you, but I'm being such a _fuck up_ I can't even b-be happy."

Greg shook his head, taking John's face between his quaking hands and speaking in an urgent rush. 

"No, that's not what I meant. I meant overall, John, I didn't mean that I- what I meant was I...as a long-term goal, want you to be happy predominantly. I don't mean that I need you to be happy all the time, every moment of the day. I meant thriving and well with increasing regularity. I don't need you to sit here while you are terrified and smile through it, that's not what I meant, John. I love you, I would never want you to pretend. You are not a fuck up, John. You are the strongest man I know."

John reached up and pressed Greg's hands against his face to prevent him from letting go and closed his eyes. Desperately he tried to sort things out with mental lists and pitiful attempts at objective logic. It ended in nothing, stupid nothing, and John gave Greg a pleading, helpless look. 

"I'm _so confused._ "

Greg nodded and leaned in, pressing a soft, chaste kiss to John's eyebrow. 

"Okay...l-let me sort it, okay? Here," he breathed, dizzy with apprehension for what he was about to try. He drew back slowly from John and stood up, walking over and collecting a brio and paper, moving to sit back down next to John. His hands were shaking so hard it was difficult to maintain his grip on the pen. He cleared his throat, fear pushing his composure down as slow tears began to roll down his cheeks, despising the lists more than anything else. They seemed to help John, and so he would do it anyhow. 

_ What Greg Wants _

He decided to break it down as clearly as possible. 

_ Day-to-Day _

__ For John to remember he is loved  
For John to remember he is safe and protected  
For John to remember that his feelings are valid and okay, no matter what  
For John to try with food  
For John to try with water  
For John to do something fun 

He looked over the list, his handwriting a nightmare, stomach in his throat along with his heart. He dragged the back of his hand over his sweating forehead. The damn lists always seemed to backfire, but he pressed on.

_ Longterm _

_For John to be predominantly happy_  
For John to be his own man, safe and loved  
For John to decide his own life 

He stared at those for a moment, swiftly scrawling a last line before handing it over to John. 

_For John to remember that no matter what, Greg loves him and is always his friend. Always._

John watched Greg write and blinked rapidly so he could see clearly. When the list was finally handed over, he spent at least a minute on each item before moving to the next. 

Months of confusion, difficult rules and backwards expectations had made John very easy to confuse. WIth Moriarty, he was to be obedient. There were established rules, such as no speaking, no eating, no drinking, no trying to escape, and always being obedient, but sometimes Moriarty would go against them, and demand that John speak to tell him lies, or that he drink something put out for him. If John refused, he would be beaten. If he complied, the same fate awaited. There had been no lists, nothing set in stone, and John had to remember and interpret the rules frantically to keep from being beaten. 

And here was a list, an easy, concrete way for him to avoid both his pain and Greg's with no hidden provisions. 

"Thank you," he breathed after a full ten minutes of staring. 

"I just...I should just worry about the day to day one, right? I can just do that...I can do these. But the third one, I don't know, because sometimes what I'm feeling is wrong."

Greg had endured the past ten minutes with his knee bouncing madly and a fist tight in his hair. Each passing minute had amplified his stress, leaving him sure that his idea with the lists had been wrong, and that he was about to lose John. As the minutes stretched on, he began to formulate little chaotic, fluttering plans to deal with another bout of handling a comatose John. 

And then John was speaking and Greg started to breathe again. He nodded in response to John's question, and then shook his head, whispering a rough ' _no_ ," as he tried to get his racing heart under control. 

"Whatever you _feel_ , that's not wrong. Now...how you handle what you are feeling can be...but...but that doesn't mean you are not allowed to _f-feel_ , John. You are always allowed to feel." 

John committed the list to memory and folded it very carefully. "I'll tell you what I'm feeling, then, but most of the time it's either confusion, guilt and sadness, or happiness, pride and love. I don't have much in between." 

He tucked the list into the waistband of his trousers, the drawstring of which was tied in a regular, easy knot, not the kind that he had used to track whether or not anyone had taken them off him. 

John pulled his shirt back down and slowly leaned over to put his head on Greg's lap. "I don't know what is happening in my mind, Greg. It's confusing and it _hurts_."

Greg sank his fingers into John's hair and began to smooth it back. "Can you tell me about it?" He asked quietly, wiping his tear-stained face on his sleeves as he tried to comfort John, "I'd...maybe I can help? Or maybe...maybe it’s time to bring Paul back?"

John relished the feeling of Greg's touch and he slowly began to calm. "Not Paul” he said so harshly that Greg jumped. John carried on as though he’d not just spat venom. “I get confused, and I feel like I hurt you and then I just _panic_. I can't breathe, and I get scared, and I know you'll never leave me, but I can't think straight. And I just...No matter what I try, no matter what I think about, I just _hate_ myself." 

John said the word with so much conviction that the word felt like glass, cutting his throat on the way into the air.

Greg wrapped his hand protectively around the side of John's neck and carried on stroking his hair, working his fingers over John's scalp, deeply disheartened that the list hadn't done any good. 

"I understand that feeling," he whispered, eyes burning, "I'm sorry that you feel that way. I'm glad you know I won't leave."

John turned his head side to side as Greg worked on it and his expression grew less tense. "Will you be alright if I have a hard time with number three? I can do the others, I think. We've done the last. The birds count for the last one, right?"

Greg closed his eyes. The third request had been the most pivotal of them all. 

"The birds count, of course. John the...it was probably stupid of me to make the list. I don't like lists. I was just trying to...to help with your confusion but that wasn't the sort of confusion you were struggling with and...and I..." he shook his head, angry with himself, deeply wishing Paul were around to help. 

"You don't have to do any of it, John I- I just didn't want you to think you had to pretend to be okay or that you were failing me by not feeling happy all the time and I-" he snapped his jaw shut as he began to panic, "it's okay, we- you don't have to do number three." 

"You don't like lists?" 

John's face fell and he touched the one he had in his waistband. 

"I'm sorry, I didn't know. I like lists. I really, really do. There weren't any lists, and I'd forget, and I'd get hurt and it wasn't clear and I hated it and I didn't know why to do and-" John had been progressively speaking faster, his tone rising, and cut himself off before it got out of hand. 

"Lists are good. But I won't ask you to make any more. Can I still make them for me? Written things help."

Greg nodded and held tight to John for another moment before leaning down and whispering to him. 

"I'm going to get your medicine, I'm stressing you and we have medication to help, yeah? I'm just going to grab your medicine and I'll c-come right back. I'm not doing a very good job of helping you right now and I don't want to make you panic. If you don't want medicine, you don't have to have it. You can still make lists, all the lists you want, okay?"

"Yeah, medicine sounds good." 

John stood and took Greg's hand. He actively hated himself, more severely than he hated his tormentors. Moriarty had done bad things to a man who deserved them, and John was hurting an innocent man. So twisted was John's frame of reality that he when he looked at Greg's face, he thought he saw upon it the deep, open gashes and scars from the injuries caused to him by the man he had only ever tried to protect. John gasped and reeled back, but it was gone before he had time to make sense of it.

Greg blinked as icy fear rushed down his chest, "John?" He breathed, reaching out for him again, "Oh god, John? What...are you okay? John Jesus, I- let...l-let me get your medicine. Oh, John, Christ let me-" 

He pulled John along with him, putting him on the edge of the bed, his hands shaking so hard they rattled the pill bottle like an instrument. 

"John here...I'm sorry, I- it's all okay, John, here," he breathed as he tipped out the pills, terrified by the look he'd just gotten from John, "take these, they will help, just...just take...it's okay, everything's okay." 

John gripped his hair and curled up into a ball on the bed. 

"No...no... I'm sorry, I'm sorry." John looked up cautiously and saw Greg's face, free of blood and scars. Relief swept over him and he pulled Greg's face close to him, kissing him on the cheek and tipping his forehead to Greg's. 

"I-I saw s-something bad," he whimpered.

Greg's knees had gone to jelly. He sank down on the bed beside John and held the pills to John's lips. 

"Take...take these," he breathed, his heart pulsing hard in his ears, nearly making him sick, "I'm...god I'm sorry this is happening to you, take...let the medicine work. I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry, John." 

He curled up around John, his own nerves totally shot, holding John as tight as he could. 

John kept one hand on Greg's cheek even when he took the pills. "I saw, Jesus, I-I saw your f-face, but I had c-cut it and-" John broke to a wave of tears when he realized that even without information pointing to it, he had assumed, no, _known_ , that he was the one to hurt Greg. 

"M'sorry, love. Sorry. I'm going to g-go to sleep. Please don't let go of m-me."

Greg nodded against John's hand and kept him tight against his chest, mouth flooded with saliva, dangerously close to sicking up. He closed his eyes and held on to John, willing him to fall asleep swiftly. 

"I'll stay right here, I'll be right here."

John saw Greg's slashed face when he closed his eyes and fought against the horrific image. He saw Greg kneeling, face carved and bleeding freely. He saw his own hand covered in blood, could distinctly see the steel, folding tanto blade, and knew without a shadow of a doubt that he was the one hurting Greg.

Why was Greg staying with him? He could go out and get his own company if he wished and not bother with the worthless mess of a man who cried on his bed.

John could not. If Greg left, he was alone. Why then, if Greg could have companionship with anyone he chose, did he stay with him through the pain?

John grabbed hold of Greg's shirt and held on tight. "H-How could y-you love me? How? What d-do you see? I-I'm making your l-life worse!"

Greg pulled John in tighter, hooking his leg over John's hip and drawing him in closer, keeping his heel at the back of John's thighs, starting to rock them slowly. 

"You've been my best mate for years. You were here for me when I was falling apart after my family left me. You have the best heart. You...you're incredible John and I love you, I _love you_. Please, John, you are an amazing man and I...I need you to believe that I love you."

John cried onto Greg's shoulder, but the security of being cradled as he was improving his mind drastically. "Thank you...thank you..." He felt Greg’s leg over him, and for some reason, the added closeness bled the tension from his muscles. 

"I love you too. I never want to hurt you. Forgive me if I do. Forgive me, my love."

Greg just nodded against John, rocking him and keeping him as folded in as possible, cradling the back of his head and protecting the back of John's neck, other arm slung protectively over John's kidneys and tender lower back. He was holding his breath to keep from sobbing, terrified, needing John to sleep and utterly paralyzed with the very real possibility that John wouldn't come back. 

"I always will," he managed, his voice wrecked, "I'll al-always forgive you. I love you." He bit down hard on the inside of his lip as his chest buckled with the repressed urge to sob, wanting to beg John to come back and too afraid to know what it would be like for John to ignore him.

John closed his eyes and crossed his arms over his chest. "P-Please, love, I need y-you to just... All I n-need is to be held. This is g-good. This is all I-I need."

Terror slid through him as he was reminded again that he did not deserve to be held, he deserved to be cut, beaten and drowned. "I don't deserve your l-love, but I-I'm so glad y-you love me. I'm h-here. I l-love you, and I know that's all I have for you, b-but I care about you s-so much."

Greg kept petting John, doing his best to keep him comforted. He wasn't going to argue with him right now about what he did and did not deserve. He deserved more than Greg, that was for sure. Greg rocked him and kept him wrapped up tight, his own eyes pinched shut and his breathing very tightly controlled, waiting for the poor man to fall asleep. 

"You're love is more than enough," he whispered against John's sweat-damp hair. 

John relaxed completely at the affirmation that his love was enough, and his eyes fluttered shut. "Oh god, thank y-you."

Relief slid through him as effectively as any morphine and John pressed a slow, tired kiss to Greg's lips before dropping off to sleep.


	32. Chapter 32

Miller texted Paul when Sherlock came back awake. Sherlock had napped for two hours in the shelter of his brother's arms, and simply opened his eyes when he woke, keeping quiet and as relaxed as he could make himself. Miller watched as Sherlock’s fingers curled to his lips and he lay there quietly sucking on them in this new habit of comforting himself. . 

Paul could see Sherlock from the door, though Sherlock did not seem to notice. He lingered there for a few minutes, simply watching, studying his patient. He caught sight of the image of John on Sherlock's bedside table, staring at it for a while before finally lightly knocking on the doorframe. 

"Mycroft? Sherlock?" 

Mycroft curled himself around Sherlock protectively in response, wanting Sherlock to feel sheltered. . 

"Sherlock, it's My. Are you doing alright?" 

He ignored Paul, not out of anger or spite or rudeness, but simply out of concern for Sherlock.

Sherlock tugged lightly at Mycroft's shirt, nodding slowly. "It's Paul," he said very quietly, but extremely clear and calm, "he hasn't been in since I...I was t-taken out of sedation. He has a paper to finish writing." 

To Sherlock, the story had ended. John was home...his new home, with someone who loved him, and what else was there to tell? He picked up his head, wincing as it pulled at his neck, and nodded for Paul to come inside. 

Paul watched the entire exchange with open curiosity. "Good afternoon." 

Mycroft waved Paul in and smiled when Sherlock spoke rationally. 

"He's still got work to do making sure we're both alright. He helps me too, 'Lock. It makes me sad when you're sad, and he helps me keep my head."

Sherlock kept his face turned to Mycroft's chest and spoke, voice muffled by the material of Mycroft's shirt. 

"My brother has taken a leave of absence and i-is debating resigning if I n-need him. Do your job and talk s-sense into him." Grumpy irritation slid into his tone and he huffed, speaking as though he wanted Mycroft to leave all while still clinging tight to him. 

Paul spoke calmly to Mycroft in response.

"That is welcome news. How are you both fairing? Sherlock, you seem remarkably lucid." 

Sherlock looked slowly up at Paul before rolling his eyes and tucking back down into the safety of Mycroft's arms. "M-My track record states that I've another what would you say, My? Fifteen to twenty m-minutes before am a drooling mess again." 

"Your track record also says that you defy odds and improve exponentially.You're doing wonderfully. You've already been ludic for what, ten minutes? And don't you try and get Paul on your side. I'm staying with you." 

Mycroft offered another smile and gave Sherlock a light squeeze. 

"Since you have less pain, it will help you stay lucid."

Paul returned Mycroft's smile and nodded, sharing a moment of understanding. He looked over then to John's picture, plucking it up and studying it. 

"This is remarkable. He's put on weight and he's honestly smiling. Very good news indeed. Are he and Greg often in touch?" He knew the answer, but wanted to gauge Sherlock's reaction to it. 

Sherlock held his breath for several heartbeats before bringing his fingers back to his lips and ruthlessly biting down on the tips, depressing his tender nails, indenting but not breaking the skin. He began to rock ever so slightly in an effort to soothe himself. 

When he spoke, the irritated edge was gone from his tone. 

"They h-have rightly decided to...p-put their efforts elsewhere." The words were bitter on his tongue and his breathing kicked up slightly, tension slipping into his shoulders under Mycroft's hands. 

Mycroft kissed the top of Sherlock's head. "I think Greg is helping John get used to water and food so when he and Sherlock are able to see each other more, he'll be ready." It was wishful sounding, but likely the truth.

"I think that when you next see John, he'll be much better. Perhaps Paul could stop over to see how they are doing."

Sherlock said nothing, burrowing down deeper against his brother and sucking on his fingers. Paul looked to Mycroft and tapped his own fingers in question, wondering if Mycroft was familiar with the motion. 

"I am going over there later this afternoon in fact. Likely low on groceries and I'm interested in visiting with them. But I wanted to come talk to you for a while, Sherlock." Truth was that he’d been attempting to get in with the men since they’d gone home, but John had refused and there was no legal ground for him to force a visit. 

Sherlock huffed as he chewed on his fingers. "I c-cannot read, nor can I walk, or f-feed myself or otherwise function even a-at the level of a dog. If-f you are wrapping up your paper, I am b-breathing at at times lucid. I have tanked my brother's h-hard gotten career, and am otherwise f-forgotten. Leave m-me alone." 

Mycroft listened to him quietly. He’d been stunned to see that Molly had not come to see Sherlock, despite repeated messages requesting for her to do so. At one point, he’d considered _collecting her_ and brining her to Sherlock, but his brother was so finely tuned into the projection of others that the risk was too great. Sherlock would see the forced visit for what it was. Mrs. Hudson would surely visit and had been harrasing him to allow her to do so, but he knew for a fact that she would fail to handle seeing Sherlock so horrifically battered. In time, she would visit. 

To add insult to injury, Mycroft felt like a damned criminal to lament his career, but he had worked hard for it. He could grieve his loss and still be wholeheartedly devoted to Sherlock.

"Sherlock, are you thirsty? I've got some water for you, if you want. I've got as much as you can handle." 

Mycroft spoke directly after Paul gestured to his fingers, indicating that it was one of the possible causes. "If you aren't feeling well, you can always talk to me and tell me what is stressing you." And there, another.

Sherlock shook his head at the offer of water, though he wanted it. Not in front of Paul, not when he could be analyzed and his every move picked apart. He wasn't feeling well, but that was status normal. He was quiet for a few a few minutes while Paul patiently waited. Finally Sherlock looked up at him, drawing his fingers away from his lips. 

"When...when you s-see John..." he closed his eyes and tipped his face back to Mycroft's shoulder. 

_Tell him I love him._

_Tell him I've died._

_Tell him I'd move the stars for him._

_Tell him…_

"John p-prefers... there is a t-tea and Mycroft can t-text you...will...will you bring th-that and pick up a Tolken movie for him? He...d-don't tell him it was m-me I just..." he pulled at Mycroft and gasped, grief licking across him like a white-hot blade over his heart. 

"And Greg...he could do with a few d-draughts and… Greg enjoys the Bond films. He...p-please ensure they are alright."

Mycroft spoke immediately after his brother. "If you would, Paul, I'll compensate you for your efforts. I'm sure the two of them could use some company." 

Paul was no longer being paid by the government, due to the operation being shut down and the sanity of the witness no longer necessary, and Mycroft wanted him to know that he would continue to receive pay if he continued to work. 

"If you write up anything you buy for the two of them, and the time you spend, I'll repay you."

Paul put up his hand, shaking his head. "There is no need, I'm happy to do it on my own time, Mycroft." He looked back at Sherlock though, tipping his head to the side. 

"Sherlock, why would I not tell them the gifts are from you? It's very kind and thoughtful for you to consider their needs."

Sherlock rocked himself in his brother's arms, shaking his head and slowly losing his grip on calm. "I- Paul is going to sh-shout at me if-f I say," he whispered in French to Mycroft. 

"He wouldn't shout," Mycroft continued in French for Sherlock's privacy, "and if he did, I'd make him leave. Why don't you want them to know the gifts are from you?" 

Sherlock made a pathetic sound and ducked his head lower, scrambling for the sound of Mycroft's beating heart. He clung to the material of Mycroft's shirt as his grip on calm began to slip. 

"They w-won't want....want them then and I know...it will h-help them f-feel better to have comfort items. John loves th-that tea, m-made me always go to the specialty shop f-for it. He...always w-wanted to eat when...m-might help him and…” his voice cracked as he faced his reality, speaking words he knew to be true, “my name will ruin it. I don’t want to s-spoil his favorite tea." 

Mycroft shook his head and pressed Sherlock's ear against his chest. At least there was one thing about him that comforted Sherlock, even if it was just the echoes of his organs keeping him alive. 

"No, Sherlock, that's not how it would work. Trust me. He would be grateful to you. It would make him happy to know that you are thinking kindly of him."

Sherlock was quiet as he listened to Mycroft's steady heart beating. He closed his eyes and imagined the interior of Greg's flat, wondering where John was in that moment. 

"He...th-they would n-not thank you for the r-reminder that I am s-still here.You are...o-oddly optimistic in r-regards to him he-" Sherlock looked up then, hope pathetically painted on his features. "Has h-he...did th-they ask a-after me?"

Mycroft smiled down at Sherlock and nodded. "Greg asks about you a lot. I spoke on the phone with him when you were sedated. He's so worried about you, and so is John. Both of them wish you a swift recovery."

Mycroft took out his phone then and sent a quick text to Greg. 

_I need something from John. Another picture, a letter, a shirt that smells like him, anything._

Sherlock was about to speak when Paul did so first. "I'm going to go handle what you've asked of me and check on the pair of them. Please, Mycroft, feel free to communicate with me at any time. Sherlock, I'm going to come by tomorrow and see you." 

Sherlock ignored him and stared at Mycroft. "Why...why didn't you t-tell...tell me? I th-thought they'd s-stopped asking when- why d-doesn't he talk to me then? I'm...I-" he swallowed and stared at Mycroft's face, searching for deception. 

Mycroft's mobile buzzed with an exhausted text from Greg, his writing jumbled, attesting to how much he’d fallen recently. 

_Can sens shirt, I'm still trying with him otherwise._

"I am sorry I didn't tell you. I meant to, but I have been stressed and forgot." Mycroft sounded very calm on the outside, which did nothing to show how stressed he truly was. 

"Thank you, Paul, I am grateful as always for your assistance." Mycroft curled closer to Sherlock and continued speaking with him. "You know, 'Lock, we could call Greg sometime, if you wanted. Not John, not unless you're ready. Or Molly, or Mrs. Hudson."

_Paul is coming._

Sherlock buried against Mycroft and drew his arms around his brother, breathing as slowly as he could, doing his best to pull himself out of the tipping confusion and stay with his brother. "Y-You're not well," he whispered, chewing at the inside of his lip for a moment. "This...this is damaging f-for you." 

He slipped his fingers into his mouth, sucking on the ends of them just to the center of his fingernails, forcing his mind to run through the decline. “I'm...I'm o-okay if you...I c-can just...you sh-should go." 

Mycroft hadn't been this close to another human being in years. He'd said he wasn't lonely, he didn't need intimacy, but there was something so basic and good about holding someone you cared about that he had been lacking. Mycroft gave his little brother a light squeeze and shook his head. 

"I am not going anywhere. I love you, remember? It would be a foolish thing to define love as just liking being around someone, or wanting what is best for them. Love means I am willing to sacrifice for you."

Sherlock shook his head, unwilling to accept that. "That-t comes with a p-price I'll...un-unlikely be able t-to s-settle. I h-have...nothing l-left to sacrifice for you. I g-gave it to John. I am s-sorry, brother. You...I'm-m...will only be a few months, I swear it, only a few months and I'll...I'll be...you can pay s-someone and I won't abuse them. I'm...it's not amusing any l-longer. There is no point, I'm not an-anything-" _remarkable, unique, worthwhile, important, meaningful_ \- “I'm not anything." 

Mycroft didn't know how to respond to Sherlock when he said so many _wrong_ things in one go. "You don't have to give anything in return. If I wanted something in return, it wouldn't be love, it would be a business negotiation. You are my family. You are a remarkable man and a friend to me."

Sherlock had no understanding of this. His entire relationship with his family had been the give and take, debt-v-debt exchange of favors. He'd failed, of course, to meet those expectations and had pushed his brother back hard many years ago, stung as a young boy forgotten by his hero when Mycroft left for Uni. Or at least, that was how young Sherlock recalled it.

"I...you..what? I- n-no I'm not, I'm a horrible man. What are y-you on with about...I'm no one's friend, I'm...I'm a f-finely honed tool and n-now I'm non-functional. It's n-not...not...l-love was never f-for me, remember? I-" he shivered and burrowed closer to Mycroft, worried that his logic would remind Mycroft of the energy he was wasting, which would lead to his leaving. 

Mycroft felt the dire need to word everything absolutely perfect to avoid discouraging Sherlock against the notion altogether. 

"Love is...dangerous. It makes us vulnerable. The reason I was always so adamantly against it was not because I didn't think you should love me, or because I thought you shouldn't have...friends...I just wanted to protect you. You were always a bit vulnerable to other people, to loss and pain, and I had very little trouble functioning without companionship. I thought it would work for you."

Sherlock had his fingers between his lips and closed his eyes, sucking lightly at them as he tried to find some place still and calm. He traced back along the long-worn path to the house in his mind, most of it caved in and molded by then. He was outwardly breathing slow and deep as he mentally walked the perimeter, weeds and overgrown flowerbeds all that remained. 

_'Redbeard!' he called out, whistling a few times before repeating the name, the hope that the beloved and carefully stored memory of his only true companion would ever return. Still, there was comfort in walking around the exterior of his ruined home, calling out the name. 'Redbeard! Here boy, come on! Come on!'_

_He found a little thatch of dead grass to settle himself on, leaning back against a great oak, tipping his head up and staring at the bare branches. There was no sun or atmosphere any longer, all just...gray and still. It oddly echoed in his head, reminding him that there was nowhere to retreat._

_Mycroft had buried the dog for him when he was a boy, gently chastising Sherlock for having grown so attached, shaking his head at the boy with tears pouring down his face. Sherlock had settled under that oak for years, fingertips grazing the ground as though scratching behind his friend’s ears. And so he settled again, willing the dog to show himself._

He'd not paid any mind to the hour that slipped by, unresponsive and staring at nothing. "He n-never bit me. Everyone...everything else hurt. Always hurt. But he never bit me, and he would s-smile at me...and his f-fur was warm and he n-never mocked me if I cried. I...I've lost him again, but I know...I know that l-love." 

Mycroft was deeply worried about Sherlock as he lay still, and several times attempted to rouse him from his state. "Sherlock, please, look at me. Look up. Blink. Do something to let me know you can hear me."

He tried the tapping, different languages, tapping _in_ different languages, and eventually settled to wait. 

Sherlock began to speak again as though no time had passed at all. "He n-never bit me. Everyone...everything else hurt. Always hurt. But he never bit me, and he would s-smile at me...and his f-fur was warm and he n-never mocked me if I cried. I...I've lost him again, but I know...I know that l-love." 

Mycroft immediately began petting his hair and gently rubbing his shoulder. It didn't take much of a hint to know what was on Sherlock's mind. 

"Yes, yes, Redbeard was a good dog. You were very kind to him, and he loved you."

Sherlock immediately broke. The combination of soft touch and the aching longing for the damned _memory_ of his dog tugging at places in his heart that had been horrifically damaged. He could not stop thinking of John curled on the floor in a bloodied, horrifying mess. He could not get the screams out of his mind, visceraly recalling the sharp scent of blood and terror as he ran with John in his arms. He’d ultimately caused every bit of suffering John had endured. Had he never allowed himself to attach, John would likely be whole and sound. The irreparable nature of all of it was stunning. 

So he sobbed, helpless to the overwhelming force of it, his breathing tripping so hard he began to gag. A tidal wave of grief and the abject horror of what had been done to the man he _loved_ flooding out of him in an abrupt outpouring. 

"I- he n-needed- and- wh-wh-when I- I broke h-him I-" he suddenly screamed out against Mycroft's chest so loudly that his back shook with the force of it, setting several staff scrambling for his room.

Mycroft clutched Sherlock. His brother was a full grown man, and his grief was strong enough to rip him to shreds. 

"'Lock, please, I'm here. It's all going to be alright, please, just look at me. Just look." 

Sherlock was oblivious to the panic he was causing as his blood pressure shot up through the roof and suddenly he was clutching at his own chest, washing pale as his hands and feet began to shake. 

When Sherlock began to have heart trouble, Mycroft held his head tightly in his arms and rocked back and forth while waving the medical staff in. "Breathe, 'Lock. It's okay. I'm here."

Sherlock keened in pain, clutching his chest and struggling to breathe. He looked up in wide-eyed fright as Mycroft spoke to him. "I- it...h-he...I" he shook his head as he kept his eyes on his brother. Miller was in the room then, watching Sherlock very closely. 

Sherlock swallowed and dug at his chest as though trying to prize the pacemaker from under his skin. The sheer size of his loss, of the guilt he carried for John, was so massive it was crushing him. He could not possibly endure it any longer. 

"I- cc-can't do this, I can't do th-this I...I...I can't do it-t, My I can't!" 

"Yes, yes you can. You can do this." Mycroft locked eyes on Sherlock and breathed slowly and calmly to try to set a rhythm.

After a few seconds he turned to Miller, eyes slightly wider than usual. "Help him. Please, he was having pain."

Miller was already working on it when Sherlock screamed at him, "NO! I c-can't _do this!_ S-stop m-making...I don't w-want this any- _NO!_ " he was clawing at the pacemaker, wanting it _out_. 

His heart wanted to stop and oh _god_ , so did he. What was the point? He was slaughtering Mycroft's life and John was lost and he couldn't even _read_ and the dog was gone and his mind was- "P-Please I- I c-can't do- th-this! My I can't I _can't_!" 

Mycroft grabbed Sherlock's hands and held them tight. "You can do this! You can! Sherlock, listen to me. Listen! Things will get better. I promise you." 

Mycroft was struck with the thought that maybe this was cruel, keeping him alive, but he couldn't allow anything else. 

Miller moved as Mycroft distracted his sobbing brother, pushing drugs to calm his heart and his nerves. Sherlock struggled against Mycroft as he felt the burn of a sedative, shaking his head and shouting at him. 

"I don't want...want this I...I don't want this, M-My I c-can't..."

The drugs stopped his struggling a few moments later, slowly sagging against Mycroft with a pathetic cry, pressing his ear over Mycroft's heart. 

Mycroft gently rocked him and called to memory some of John’s blog pages he had read. He began to loosely recite one of them, the Geek Interpreter, as he rocked. Keeping Sherlock occupied was the least he could do.

Miller watched Sherlock's monitors closely as Sherlock listened to his brother, his broken crying slowly fading down to the occasional hitching breath, the tension bleeding away on the sedative. He was asleep ten minutes later, fingers loosely wrapped in his brother's shirt. Miller stepped forward then, "Let me check that incision and then I'll have someone bring you food, Mycroft. Is there anything else I can get you?"

Mycroft pulled a pillow closer to better support Sherlock's head and wrapped the blankets up around him. 

"Food would be lovely, thank you. A few bottles of water to keep on hand as well."

Within the half hour, Miller had proper food delivered from the local cafe, water, and a bottle of anti-anxiety medication delivered up to Mycroft, as well as a quality stereo, capable of playing both CDs and audio files. 

Meanwhile, Paul made his rounds through London, running a bit of shopping for John and Greg, as well as collecting the specialty tea that John so enjoyed and stocking up on beer and other comfort items for the pair of them. 

He texted Greg when he arrived several hours later, when the sun was beginning to drop lower in the sky and the weather began to cool. Greg lay there, pale and shaking, reading the message before simply inviting Paul to walk in, instructing him to which stone the spare key was hidden under. While listening to the man rummage in the kitchen, he gently spoke to John. 

"John? Can you wake up for me?" 

 

He felt John stir in response. He did not want to wake up. He did not want to be conscious or aware of what he had done, or feel the pain of existing. But Greg was asking him to, and he would comply. John blinked blearily and rolled over so he was draped across Greg's chest with his eyes half open. 

"I'm awake. What-" The sound of someone in the kitchen reached John and he tightened his grip on Greg. "Do you hear that? Someone's here." In a tight whisper, John warned Greg before sitting up and scanning the room for something to be used as a weapon. 

Greg sat up with him, shaking his head. "John, it's just Paul. You are sharing a flat with a police officer, I've more than enough ways to protect us. It's alright, I'm sorry to scare you." 

He pulled John into his arms and very gently eased them back down to the bed, pulling John into his arms and holding onto him as tight as he could manage for a few minutes as the sounds of plastic shopping bags and the opening and closing of cabinets whispered up from the kitchen. 

Greg nuzzled along the side of John's face, pressing soft kisses to his temple and along his brow, carding his fingers along John's scalp. "Are you in any pain? Can I do anything for you?"

John's pinched, frightened expression warmed as Greg melted the icy fear in him with soft kisses and reassurances, and shortly John had accepted that the person was either Paul, Greg's friend, or a dead man walking. John wrapped one leg over Greg's hip, as the other had done yesterday, and took long, slow breaths. 

"Paul can help us, can't he? I think...I think we need him now. We need help." 

It was no surprise nor secret that they needed some kind of outside, professional opinion, and at this point John had such a shattered pride to begin with that he had no qualms with asking for help. The reluctance he’d felt towards having anyone -even Paul- in the flat was almost gone now that Greg was openly bordering on collapse.

Greg shivered as tension eased from his muscles, relieved that they’d finally be able to get help. 

"Yes, Paul always helps," he whispered, hoping to all the heavens that it was true. 

A few minutes later, there was a soft knock at their door. "Greg? John? Can I visit with you for a bit?" 

Paul watched the tangle of limbs that were his patients, and obviously the plural was necessary. While he'd not spoken with the men in some time, their respective positions made each man's suffering crystal clear.

"I've put out tea and a bit to eat, if you'd like to come to the sitting room." 

John pulled Greg a bit closer when Paul knocked, but relaxed soon after. He didn't particularly like Paul, but he didn't hate him or fear him. After one last moment of close embrace, John sat up to address Paul. It was much like gathering the courage and warmth to get out of a hot shower on a day when the house is cold, and John would have liked to linger in the warm spot he left behind. 

In an attempt to sound as adult as possible, John carefully chose his words before speaking. 

"Tea would be fantastic. Thank you. It's good that you're here. We need help."

Paul listened calmly to John, a bit surprised to see him headline, and kept eye-contact as he responded. 

"Alright, John, I'm happy to." 

He stepped back, giving them time to collect themselves, walking back into the sitting room. The sofa was still piled high with the nest of blankets and pillows Greg had arranged days ago. There were crumpled bits of paper and two tossed aside brios on the table. Paul had set out food and the tea Sherlock recommended, which smelled a bit of honey and lemon, and a beer for Greg. He had no idea what John was eating yet, if anything, but for Greg there was a large sandwich and a bowl of potato soup. For John, just the soup. 

Paul took a seat and waited for the men to join them. 

Greg pushed himself up, running a hand through his hair, slowly standing up and looking to John. 

John stretched his slightly stiff limbs and took Greg's hand. "He'll help us. It's alright. I'm feeling pretty clear today, so I shouldn't..." _Break down into hysterics?_ "...be too much trouble." 

John led them out into the room and the smell of his favorite tea instantly grabbed his attention. 

"Is that...?" 

John pulled Greg along behind him and over to the little tray with the familiar scent of his old favorite tea. 

"It is! How did you know to-" John stopped for a second and nodded to himself. 

"Oh, Sherlock must have said something. I used to have him pick it up for me. They don't sell it most places, but that odd little shop he used to go to had it." 

A shadow crossed his face then. Sherlock was still in the hospital, likely in pain, and John hadn't been able to help. But then again, Greg had said that getting better would help him, and John placed his energies there. He sat down in the nest of pillows and blankets Greg had made for them and opened his arms for Greg to follow. 

Greg gratefully went to John, barefoot and clothes heavily wrinkled. Paul watched him, deeply concerned. John seemed to be holding the pair of them together, and Greg looked on the verge of a severe breakdown.

Greg snagged the pint off the table with a quaking hand and Paul immediately regretted offering it. He waited as Greg burrowed against John's side, pulling John tight to his chest as though protecting him. 

"Sherlock asked that I get the tea for you, I am glad you like it. He also requested I not mention it was from him, though...obviously," he gestured to John and smiled. 

"I'd like to thank you for sending him that photograph, it's been very comforting to him." 

John didn't quite remember sending a photo, but he knew that Greg took them, and was happy that something had worked. "I'll send more then, if it would help." 

Paul observed as John started on his routine with the spoon, which he needed to do three full times, with no variations between them, before he was able to bring a spoonful to his mouth. There was no doubt that it was still his favorite tea, and John smiled at the cup even if he couldn't quite drink from it normally. 

After a quick kiss to Greg's cheek, John returned to Paul's attention. 

"We need help. We're not doing very well. I'm in pain, and Greg's in pain, and I left and it hurt him."

Paul glanced at Greg, who was oddly silent and distant as he nursed at his beer. He turned his focus back to John, taking advantage of the rare opportunity to have him speaking for himself. 

"You left, John? The flat?"

John looked to Greg after each thing he said, as he was still unsure of his own mind. For all he knew, he could have fabricated everything. 

"Well, not really, I just went outside onto the balcony. I didn't want to jump, not really, I was just trying to keep Greg from being sad. I thought if I went away and cried outside it wouldn't hurt him as much." 

John's head bowed as if confessing a mortal sin. 

"And then I saw him and I...I don't know, I just left."

Paul watched Greg draw John in closer to his chest, whispering against John's ear though Paul could not hear what was said. 

Greg pressed a feather-soft kiss to John's temple. "I love you, you know? I don't think you did anything wrong, but I forgive you for that, yeah? I'll always forgive you, I always love you. It's alright." He breathed the words so that they would just be between them. 

John leaned heavily against Greg and his expression softened. "I love you too. You're wonderful. I love you. Thank you for forgiving me. I won't do it again." 

Paul leaned back, sipping at his own tea. "John, do you mean you went into your mind after Greg saw you?"

The question stung just a bit, even though John had no business being offended by it. He attempted to remain calm as he answered the man. 

"I got scared and didn't want to hurt him anymore. But I kept hurting him and I don't know what happened, I just got...stuck. It was days and-" John fought down a wave of guilt. "I'm sorry."

Greg wrapped John up in the blankets, using them where he could not be physically around John. Paul kept his expression neutral as he observed the troubling behavior between the men. They both fed off the other in rapid, severe succession. The co-dependence was even more severe than it had been while still sheltering with Mycroft. He inhaled deeply and exhaled slowly, beginning to entertain the idea of separating them, difficult as that would be. He’d not been allowed to help them, and now the damage seemed exponentially worse.

"Greg does not appear upset with you, John. Retreat in heightened stress is not surprising or unwarranted. You said it was days? Do you have any memory of them? Any recall of where in your mind you went?" He kept his tone very soft and as casual as he could, not wanting John to feel chastised or belittled. 

John knew well what he had been thinking of, but it hadn't felt like days. The haze had only been minutes, an hour at the most, wherein he had imagined himself as impervious and strong. 

"I thought about being something that can't be hurt," John said with shame clear in his voice. "I didn't mean to hurt Greg. I didn't mean to. I'm stupid and I was just trying to help and-" John broke and a sob escaped him, which caused the troubled man to burrow further into Greg's chest. 

"He isn't mad at me," he continued,"b-but I hurt him. I d-didn't want to."

Paul gave Greg a moment to set his beer down, pulling the blankets higher up on John's shoulders and all but pulling John into his lap, pressing his face down to the top of John's head and rocking him lightly. 

_Severe, potentially catastrophic co-dependence._

"I pushed John too hard over Sherlock, and then I said something damn stupid to him that hurt, and understandably so. I overwhelmed him," Greg explained, ruffling John's hair with his breath as he spoke. 

Paul let the silence hang as he watched them. The situation had severely spiraled out of hand. These two were not ready to be on their own and serious damage had been done as a result of their isolation. 

"John," he called out quietly, "we all accidentally hurt the people we love now and again. This isn't some major failing on your part. I know for a fact that Greg has accidentally caused you pain. Do you still hold it against him?"

John grabbed a fistful of fabric at the back of Greg's shirt to keep anyone or anything from separating them before he spoke. Paul took note, but did not mention it.

"Never. I'd never be mad at anything Greg did. I'll always forgive him no matter what it is." 

John meant every word of that, and meant it to an almost unhealthy level. He'd given Greg the power over him, and knew that he wouldn't leave no matter how bad it got.

"I love him. I wouldn't hold it against him. But I keep messing up! Greg is wonderful, and I'm just... I'm broken, and stupid, and I need Greg. I keep...I tried to make him happy, I thought that if he made a list of things that hurt him I could stay away from them b-but I messed that up too and I didn't know lists h-hurt him!"

Paul wondered how would they possibly go about separating them. He would have to hospitalize John, which would surely set him so far back it would be catastrophic. That was, if they could even get him away from Greg. Paul quickly caught the Stockholm-esque attachment John had formed. This was not love, it was a desperate coping mechanism on John's part to deal with the world around him while he was still so damaged. 

Greg shook his head as he shifted them. John was gripping him with a force that told him he was frightened of being torn away, so he swiveled them so that John was more physically behind him, pushed between the back of the sofa and Greg's side, with Greg blocking most of John's view of Paul. He wasn't behaving defensively, just...this looked to Paul as though it was a comfort method they'd learned over time. 

"I don't hate lists. I...I said I hate lists because they...I had to tell you things that I didn't want to. I was scared and I was tired and...and you were very angry with me and that's okay, it is, I just wasn't doing very well that day. Lists...I mess them up and it does-" he cut off as he recalled John's robotic reaction. "They...I make mistakes and the lists...I'm bad at them."

John did _not_ like the tension in the room and he whimpered softly into Greg's shoulder. It was difficult to judge what was really happening and what was fictional, as to John, the living room appeared like a courtroom, and John was on trial for all his misdeeds. But no, they weren't here to judge him. Paul could help.

John sat up a bit and held onto Greg with just a bit less desperation. "Paul, I need help. We need help. I keep hurting him, and then he's sad, and then I'm sad, and he thinks he hurt me, and it spirals. It spirals so easily. I don't know what's going on and I hate myself for getting confused and I just can't keep everything straight."

Paul nodded, "Yes, John I see all of that now that I'm here. I promise you, I'm here to help. I understand that you are both...unable to be what the other wants or needs right now. We have a few options available here."

Greg watched Paul with growing concern. "Paul, I can be what John needs. I'm just...I need a day to sleep, maybe, but I can take care of him. He's gaining weight and drinking tea and...he eats a little something every day. I...I can be what he needs." 

Terror struck John immediately and he clutched Greg with renewed desperation. 

"NO! I know what you're saying!" 

Angry, burning eyes glared at Paul accusingly and he looked as if he were about to snarl. "If you try and take Greg away from me, I will kill you. I will kill anyone who tries to take him away." 

He was quickly losing hold of what was happening in the room, and could only deduce what might be being left unsaid from Greg's insistence that he could stay. 

Paul calmly observed John demonstrate how severe the co-dependent attachment was. Greg was trying to physically soothe John down, though Paul spoke gently over him. 

"John, I want you to look at me. I've brought things to care for both you and Greg. I am here on my own personal time because I am concerned for all of you. I have no intention of forcibly removing you from Greg." He allowed that to settle for a moment. 

"John, are you going to harm me? Do I need to be afraid for my physical safety right now, because you've just threatened my life."

John's lower lip trembled and tears spilled down his face. "You...You... Greg...It sounded like you were going to..." John curled in on himself and covered his face with his hands. As far as he could recall, he had never been this violent. He'd been willing to kill to save those he cared about, or for his country, and he'd been willing to hit someone if he felt they needed it, but he'd never openly threatened to kill someone with such little cause. 

"I don't know what's wrong with me," John whimpered. "I won't kill you. I'm sorry. I don't know why I...I just...Please, don't take Greg."

Greg pulled John fully into his lap, rocking him gently as he tucked the blankets around John's shoulders, one hand wrapped around the back of John's neck. Paul allowed the men to sit quietly with one another, tenting his own fingers as he observed them. This was not a sustainable situation. Removing John was not sustainable, either. Paul rest his joined pointers against his lip and debated how best to handle this. 

"John," he spoke after a few minutes time, "how can I better help you trust me? You mentioned that lists help you with Greg. Would you like to make a list with me, where you and I can establish ground rules?"

The idea of a list appealed to John, who had never been particularly avid about the before. He looked over, eyes curious, though he was still curled against Greg. "You mean, I'll get to tell you what I don't want you to do?" 

Something broke in him then, and John began to openly weep. "Oh, God, yes. I want that. I can say what I-I don't want and-" John pressed his face against Greg's shoulder. 

Months of begging Moriarty, pleading with him, explaining in every possible way that he did not want to be hurt, and having his voice be so ignored and disregarded had left him feeling powerless and unable to take control. To hear that he could write down what he didn't want to happen and know that it would be heeded was such a beautiful, welcomed thing to hear it brought him hard into tears.

Paul stood up and collected paper and a pencil for John while Greg held tight to him, rocking him and trying to comfort him. He inhaled deeply, wishing he'd managed better for John with the lists, observing how relieving they were to John. 

Only, he'd hurt John with his list, turned John into a mechanical automation and wounded him. Greg did _not_ like the damn lists. 

Paul spoke after giving John time to vent his stress, sobbing against Greg. "That's right, John. I don't want to do anything you don't want. Here is your paper, and you can set to writing what you don't want me to do. I want you to feel safe when I am here, alright? You tell me the rules." 

John took the paper and pencil in shaking hands and set them on his knee to write. The security of it was blindingly welcome, and John trembled with the force of his sobs even as he wrote. 

_Do not hurt Greg._

Even though he knew Paul wouldn't ever hurt his friend, John wanted to be sure he understood it was his priority.

_Do not hurt me._

_Do not touch me unless I say it is alright._  
and I can say stop even if I said it was alright  
don't even pat me on the shoulder 

_Do not try to take Greg from me_

_Don't make me do things I don't want to  
things like water and food are handled by Greg_

_I can ask you to leave me alone and you have to._

John looked over his list and held it briefly to his chest. It was all the things he wanted, all the seemingly human rights that had been violated during his time with Moriarty. "Here," he whispered and handed it to Paul

Paul took the list from John and leaned back, reading over it very slowly. While he was reading, Greg had gathered John back to him, worried over how terribly John was shaking. He held John against him while Paul read, not having tried to read the list himself. 

Paul took up a pen and scrawled his signature across the bottom of the paper before standing and searching about for a thumbtack. He posted the list on the main wall in Greg's sitting room, speaking softly. "Absolutely, John, I agree to this list. Though I have to qualify a few points. If you become a danger to yourself and I can see that, I will touch you to stop you from seriously harming yourself. Otherwise, I will not touch you. I will make no attempt to take Greg from you, unless there is an extreme situation such as a medical emergency or you become violent with one another, something I cannot see happening." 

John didn't like there being exceptions, and it reminded him of the book he'd read in grade school, Animal Farm, where they had made exceptions to the rules until the pigs controlled everything. 

"If I'm hurting myself...then yeah, I suppose you can. I'll never hurt Greg, though. Never. Absolutely never. I mean, I try not to, I've hit him on accident a few times at the hospital when I struggled." John looked up at the paper on the wall and liked the small amount of binding it held, even if it wasn't legally official. "We still need help. We're in pain. We were happy, really happy, and then I messed it up."

Paul nodded, "I know you would never willingly hurt Greg. I have to mention it though, John, as we've had to protect Mycroft from his brother already. I wanted to state the only instances where I would breach these limits. Otherwise, I will operate within them. You know all of the circumstances now. As for you and Greg, you are right, you are both in need of help. Seeing as neither of you want to leave the other, we need to discuss our options here." 

Greg was leaned against John, his eyes closed, holding tight to the man. Paul nodded at Greg and then looked back to John. "From my short time here, it looks as though Greg needs medication. What do you think, John?"

While John didn't completely agree with medicating Greg, he knew that the man needed serious help. "Yeah, that might be good. But... Paul, I am causing him pain. I know it isn't really my fault, but I'm hurting him either way. I'm hurting him so badly. I make mistakes and it drags us both down hard. Sometimes I don't know if what I'm doing will help of hurt, and then I freeze, and that hurts too."

John looked up at him imploringly. "What am I supposed to do?"

Greg slowly untangled from John, taking John's shoulders in his hands and making John look him in the eye.

"You need to talk to Paul about this, but it's hard for me to hear. I am dying for a proper shower and a few minutes in the men's. Can I go while the pair of you talk?" _Please, this hurts._

Paul remained quiet. He was about to answer John, but Greg's reaction both told him more than Greg's words could, and provided an opportunity for the rough-looking man to care for himself. 

Greg leaned in and very softly brushed their lips together. "If you say no, I'll stay with you." 

John tightened his grip on Greg when he mentioned leaving, but the soft affirmation of his love calmed John, as it always did, and he gave a small nod. "Alright, I'll stay here. Take your time. I'll be okay. I have a list." 

John pressed a kiss to Greg's forehead and lingered there for a moment. "I love you. I'll be alright. Go have a shower."

Greg gave him a small smile and got up, slowly moving down the hall towards his room, gathering clothes before walking across the hall to the lav. Paul waited until the door closed to speak softly to John. 

"Okay, John. Now is a better time to discuss Greg. I can see that he needs help and I'm going to help him, okay? Let's talk about what it is you think you're doing to him. I think I know what's going on, but I would like to hear your ideas first." 

John closed his eyes as Greg left and he regimented his breath.

"I don't think that he is alright. I emotionally damage him with stupid things all the time even though I'm so careful. Every time I can't do something, or I get sad, or I panic, it hurts him so badly. He's damaged. And then, if he says something and I react badly, he gets the same way and we both end up a mess."

Paul listened to John with focused attention, nodding as he considered John's concern. "You call him damaged. Do you believe he's honestly damaged or just having a difficult time? Is it...what are you seeing him do that makes you believe he's damaged?"

"I can't...my mind isn't clear. It hurts to think about some things. You're a therapist, right? You know what's going on? Tell me why I can't figure anything out, or why I fall apart when I hurt Greg. Tell me what's going on." John looked up at Paul with a look both demanding and hopelessly pleading. 

Paul leaned back and spoke quietly. "Greg challenges the things you taught yourself to keep safe in captivity. Historically, if you allowed yourself to believe anything other than those truths, you would feel terrible pain. Only now, those methods are hurting you. Your mind shuts down when Greg says water won't hurt, because you were forced to believe it would, and it did, and it is now deeply upsetting to hear your truths were lies all along."

John inhaled sharply and pulled lightly at his hair to stay focused. "I had to believe him...and... I should know by now that it doesn't hurt, I should know those were...they were...I know they were lies." 

The difficulty with which he said those words out loud to someone other than Greg alarmed him and he looked up to Paul for an explanation. 

Paul put his hands up calmly. "That's scary to admit to someone else, I know. That's normal. I will never hurt you John no matter what you say. That's a victory, John, you saying that is a victory and it will swiftly become easier."

John had his fingers laced together over the back of his neck and his eyes were pinched shut. 

"I never meant for any of this to happen. I feel so _guilty_ about it all." When John looked up, there were tears in his eyes and his face looked far older than when he began even his healing. 

"Is it wrong for me to...I mean, is it normal that I...Jesus...Is it normal for me to think that all of this...all of everything..." John stared at a scar on the back of his hand for a moment and his voice faded. "...That all of this is my fault?" 

"Is it normal for you to feel that way? Yes. It's perfectly normal. If it is all your fault, that means you had some measure of control over what happened." He let that hang a moment before very gently adding, "guilt is much easier to face than the sheer horror of how helpless you were forced to be for so long."

John let out a shuttering breath. It was too much to take in all at once. It was far easier for his mind to just make him feel guilt over what he had caused than to admit to him that he had lost control of what happened to him for almost a full year. The crushing guilt, the confusion, and the self loathing were all easier to stomach than the loss of control. 

"I'm...I don't know if...It was m-my fault, I... There were r-rules and I h-had..I c-could have-" His composure was slowly being eaten away and he looked to the bathroom for Greg.

Paul called his name in a tone of calm authority. "John. I want you to take a slow, deep breath, hold it for ten seconds, and then exhale. You are safe, and we don't have to talk any longer. Let's just breathe and remember you are in Greg's home, your home, safe."

John couldn't have lost control for that long. It simply wasn't possible. He was a soldier, a good one, and didn't just allow himself to be tossed around according to the will of a psychopath. John flopped sideways on the couch and could smell Greg on one of the blankets, which he promptly wrapped around himself. 

"Had t-to be me. I..I was s-stubborn. I didn't l-learn fast b-because I'm s-stupid. I-I'm s-stupid and it g-got me beat."

Paul allowed the silence to hang, very carefully watching John so that he did not push him overly hard. Very quietly he responded, "If that's true for you, that you were too stupid, then it's true for Sherlock as well. Do you believe he was too stupid, and therefore it was his fault?“

John had hit a mental wall and he had hit it hard. The most terribly damaging part of the ordeal, as with any traumatic event, was the loss of control. If he simply admitted that he had nothing to do with it, he would be relinquishing the fabricated control he clung to so desperately. 

"No, Sherlock...He's a genius. He's hurting. I should help him. Can we find a way to help Sherlock? Let's do that now."

Paul took a moment before responding. "Will you do some breathing with me, John? We've had a good talk. Let's calm back down. Can you tell me things you like that Greg does?"

John pulled a bit of the blanket up over his nose and mouth and held it there with both hands. Willingly he gathered the information, as he was so grateful to shift the topic. 

"H-He makes me tea, and h-he brings me to p-play with birds, and h-he holds me, and-" A whine escaped him and he looked back to the bathroom.

Paul smiled warmly, keeping an ear out for Greg, who'd been gone a bit longer than he would have expected, though he was honestly glad for just one patient at the moment. John needed his focus.

"That all sounds very pleasant. Oh! I picked up a few Tolkien books for you and James Bond movies for Greg. Do you enjoy reading or watching films?"

John gave Paul a small, but honest smile that cast a bit of starlight on his somber features. "I-I like both," he responded in a voice still hitching a bit. "Greg reads to me. I forgot to add that one. H-He reads, and it makes me happy."

Paul's eyebrows went up, impressed with Greg. "He reads to you? That's wonderful, I'm sure that is very soothing. And you've done well with the tea, truly you're doing so much better overall since I last saw you. I'm impressed. You should be proud of your hard work."

"Yeah, he read one of my favorites. He must have known..It's how I came back last time. I was in my head, and then the book sort of sounded like it, and then I listened to him. I don't know. Greg is good. I love him a lot." 

John's voice was a bit muffled with the blanket he had pulled over his mouth, but he had lost the stutter. 

"I had three cups in one day before I had the problem. And I eat eggs in the morning. I got a bird on my hand and was in the same room as the fire, hot metal, and boiling water without crying. I had to leave, but...It could have been worse."

Paul gave him a wide, honest smile. "All of that is remarkable, John, just remarkable. Three? And eggs? And in the kitchen while food was being made? That's remarkable."  
He watched John calm himself down, very proud of him. "You are the most remarkable patient I ever worked with, John, truly."

"Hot metal is very frightening," John whispered and put the corner of the blanket in his mouth. "So is boiling water. But Greg always puts ice in my tea, and I check it. I'm not remarkable. I still hurt people."

Paul once again redirected the conversation. "I haven't seen what scares you about Greg. Can you tell me about what happens to him that scares you? You never amassed earlier and it will help me to help him"

At mention of helping Greg, John sat up and took the bit of blanket out of his mouth. He was slipping closer to the childish way of speaking that he generally reverted to when stressed and at the moment couldn't find a reason to care. 

"He said that he shouldn't love me and I shut down." 

That honestly took Paul by surprise. He took a moment to run that through his mind. "He said he shouldn't love you. Were the pair of you fighting? Was it said in anger?"

John brought the blanket back up to his mouth and kept his eyes on the door. "No, we don't fight. He was sad about Sherlock. I don't really understand either."

Paul watched John with the blanket and again, disconcertingly, a twinge of sympathy lit across his chest. "He was sad about Sherlock...that's...I'm not quite sure I understand, but I will try to. Did he..can you explain what happened? Did he leave or push you away?"

"No. He said it and I panicked and..I don't know. It's fuzzy. I wasn't alright. I don't remember things right sometimes." John chewed on the edge of the blanket absently and watched the bathroom door. "He said he shouldn't because it would hurt Sherlock and something else about him. He deserves better than being in a hospital, maybe. I don't remember. You should ask him."

"Ah, alright, I think I understand. Thank you, John. I might be able to help him the next time I come visit the pair of you." 

The bathroom door finally opened and Greg walked into the hallway, eyes to John for a moment before looking at the ground. His hair was damp but not dripping, and he'd put on comfortable cotton trousers and a long sleeved waffle-knit. He moved down the hall towards John and without a word, sat down on the sofa and pulled John right into his lap, blanket and all, pressing his face down to the top of John's head as he held him tight. 

John had his arms out to Greg as soon as he saw him and nuzzled against his neck when he was held. "We talked about some things. You should listen. He said that he can help. Are you alright? Do you need to talk with Paul alone?" 

It was back to the childish mode of communication, the short sentences and choppy words, but John was exhausted, and had ran into several mental walls.

Greg shook his head and just kept holding on to John. It was clear that he was going to have to handle the fallout from whatever John and Paul had spoken about. with deep resignation, he simply tightened his hold on John and kept quiet. 

Paul narrowed his eyes for a moment and then spoke softly to Greg. "I can write you something for your nerves, Greg," he offered, only to watch Greg shake his head swiftly. 

“No," he mumbled against John's head, "need to be clear-headed." 

The way Greg was acting unsettled John further and he twisted in his lap to look up at him. "Love, are you alright? I mean, I know you aren't, but what's wrong? What's going on in your head? I can help. Or Paul can help. He's probably better."

Greg gave John the best smile he could. "No, John I'm okay, just a bit worn out." He traced his fingers over John's hairline, trying to soothe him, "I'm just worn out. We'll...we'll get back to how we'd been before I-" he stopped talking, covering the moment with a strained smile, "we'll be okay." 

He looked back up to Paul. "Thank you for delivering groceries, we needed them and I wasn't sure what to do. It's a relief." 

Paul frowned at Greg even as he nodded in response to Greg's gratitude. "Well...if that's all you gentlemen need from me today, I'll be heading out. You've my number, please, anytime you need me." 

John didn't want Paul to leave until he had helped Greg, and he hadn't seen any of that actually happen yet. 

"You said that if I told you all the things you would help Greg." John leaned away to give Greg a clear view of Paul and nodded to him. "Greg, you need to tell him what's going on. I'll leave. If you don't want me to hear I'll go in the other room and sleep for a bit. You need to be okay. He said he can help." _And I can't help because I'm a fuckup so I'll just go wait in the other room._

Greg watched John pull away from him and he wrapped his arms tight around himself in John's absence, watching him walk down the hall towards the bedroom. When the door shut, Greg dropped his face into his hands, resting his elbows on his knees, and began to sob. 

"He's going to punish me for this," Greg whispered, choking on fearful anticipation, "you are going to leave and he's going to know I wouldn't talk in front of him, and he'll cry and beg me to forgive him, and then he'll be gone for god knows how long if he even comes back at all and-" 

Paul stood up and walked over, sitting down beside Greg and putting a hand on his back. "Breathe," he said calmly, slowly gliding the flat of his palm between Greg's shoulder blades, "breathe Greg. Take a minute." 

Greg forced himself to try and do so around hitching breaths, swallowing hard and needing nearly five minutes to compose himself. "I t-told him I shouldn't love him! What the _fucking Christ_ was I _thinking_? I'm...he's...sometimes he's _John,_ you know? The soldier, the doctor, the man I was best mates with, he's _in there_ and he surfaces and offers comfort and I fell for it. I fucking fell for it, and I relaxed and I said what was hurting me and...Sherlock loves him and John can't stand Sherlock. John says that he loves me. I haven't so much as called and god help me Paul I _wrote Sherlock off for dead._ I can't save them both so I just...I wrote him off! I mentally handed him over to suicide or wasting or a broken fucking heart and I-" 

He pulled at his hair, rocking forwards and back as Paul again began to walk him through breathing exercises. 

John sat cross legged directly inside the door. His posture was hunched over and he had his forehead pressed against the wood door, so much so that he would have fallen forward if it suddenly swung open. He couldn't hear much, the occasional loud word, Greg crying, and enough to understand what was happening. One line in particular caught him and prompted him to move from the door and into the bed. 

_Sometimes he's John, you know?_

John, who believed himself to hold the identity even when he was sad, scared or confused, curled up under the duvet and wept. No, he wasn't John. John was a strong name, the name of a soldier, one who had fought for his country and saved lives. He could no longer claim that identity. But if not John, who was he? 

The answer was simple, and it wracked him with sobs. _Pavlov._

Greg sat with Paul, talking with him, for another fifteen minutes before Paul convinced Greg that he had to sleep more often and to at least consider taking medication. When Paul left, Greg took another ten minutes to calm himself down and allow the puffiness to recede from around his nose and eyes before getting up and walking to their room. 

He opened the door, only to find John curled on the bed in tears. His heart twisted as guilt flooded over the calm he'd managed to achieve. 

"John," he whispered, tense and worried, "John are you...what...what happened?"

John couldn't let Greg know he had been listening, even if he'd not managed to hear most of it, and only caught snatches. It would ruin their trust, simply put. 

Instead, he reached out and pulled Greg almost on top of him in the bed and buried his face in his shoulder. 

"Nothing h-happened, I-I just..I'm just s-sad. I m-miss h-how I w-w-was when I c-c-could b-be a g-good person and-and-and be alright. I-I m-miss being okay." John drew in a long breath and let it out on a sob. 

"I-I...P-Promise m-me I'll be m-myself again, Greg. P-Promise me."

Greg folded himself around John, his heart locked in a vice. "You heard me," he whispered. John had never asked if he'd be himself again. He'd only ever asserted that he was no longer that man, that the old John was gone, and that was the end of it. He'd never asked this, not once in all these months. 

"You...you weren't meant to-" he closed his eyes and tipped his head down, breathing slow as an odd sense of detached calm settled over him, still holding John protectively as he involuntarily began to disconnect. 

"You already have been yourself several times. You are yourself, John, and this will all slow down and you'll be back as you'd been. You've hardly changed, still defending us with your life and...and always trying to help and..." he exhaled a shuddering breath, determined not to cry in defeat. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry John I just keep letting myself talk and I hurt you every time. I'm so sorry." 

"No, I didn't h-hear y-you, I-I just w-was wondering." John began to shake violently. "I'm so sorry! I-I j-just wanted t-to m-make sure y-you were a-alright! I-I love you! P-Please, d-don't...Don't s-stop t-talking. You n-need to talk. I just...I'm an ass, a-and I-I was wrong." 

Oh, God, he was going to be sick. He'd violated Greg's trust and ruined everything just by asking. 

_Oh, Pavlov, you're so stupid. I thought you said you didn't want to be hurt. So, so stupid. You must want to be hurt, the way you're acting._

John gagged and clutched Greg's shirt. "NO!" 

He flinched hard, shook his head and tried to curl himself around Greg. "Sorry, not you, j-just the v-voice. I'm n-not upset about y-you. J-Just the voice. M-Moriarty is h-hurting me, n-not you. D-Don't blame yourself. C-Could you read t-to me? It h-helps."

Greg nodded and kissed John's temple. He stood up and walked over to John's medications, tipping out everything he'd need for the night and handing them, along with two of the blue pills, giving them to John before walking out slowly into the sitting room and fetching up a book that Paul had brought. 

He returned to the bedroom and crawled up on the bed, building pillows up against the headboard and then silently pulling John into his lap, laying with his own legs splayed, John between them, John's back to his chest. The blankets came up next, over both their legs, and then Greg cracked the book open, starting to read with a quiet, subdued tone, preferring not to think on anything other than the words while his heart bled into his chest cavity. 

_When John traps me._

So much for the lists. 

John was actively working at refraining from _hurting himself_ at what he had done. His mind was hazy, but it was strikingly clear what he had done. He'd backed up an experience -Greg talking to Paul openly- with a negative reaction. To John, it sounded far too much like training, and he wondered once more why the hell Greg decided to stay with him.

"I love you," he whispered and leaned his head back. "W-We'll get through this. I p-promise. I'll be okay s-soon."

Greg kissed the top of John's head and simply carried on reading, for the moment, completely and utterly defeated. He was beginning to seriously doubt their ability to get through it. He was too much of a clumsy idiot with a weak mental disposition to get John through this. Sherlock would have managed it, had the emotional barriers in place not to fall apart all the damn time, but not Greg. 

He read slow and quiet, turning the pages and getting through the words without hearing any of them himself. 

John waited until he himself was calm and let the icy slide of acceptance chill him to the core. He wasn't John. Occasionally, the battered, broken man might slip through the training, but he wasn't John. He was Pavlov, the _something_ less than human that hurt his friends and made everyone's lives awful. 

John turned over and laid face down on Greg's chest in bitter agony. "Would you still love me if I stayed Pavlov?"

Greg closed his eyes and slowly set the book down, pages open, on John's thigh. "Pavlov? I don't understand. If your asking if I'll still love you if you stay like this, then the answer is yes, I will." 

Christ he was tired of being put in positions where the answer was bound to be wrong no matter, but again, he'd let John drive nails into his brain if that's what John wanted from him, so if John needed him trapped, trapped he would be. 

John whimpered and pulled up a fistful of Greg's shirt to cover his face with. "Thank you. I was worried that...I...this is _really hard_ , Greg. This is so hard. I want you to know that I'm trying. I r-really am. I am trying so hard. Please, don't give up on me. I'll be John. I'll be him again. I'll stop being Pavlov."

_No, you won't._

John flinched and covered his ears. "Shut _up._ "

Greg closed his eyes and then spoke quietly. "I know you are trying. I'm sorry you heard me. What I mean was that I'm...I'm fine with this, with you, helping and holding your hand and working with you. I just struggle sometimes when you sound like you used to. It's...maybe it's totally disgusting and wrong of me to miss you when I have you right here.”

He trailed off for a moment, eyes going unfocused. “ I never said I was a good man, I'm just doing the best I can. I should not have said that. I shouldn't feel it. There are so many things that I do that I can qualify with 'I shouldn't' that we'd be going over all night if I were to list them. Here," he tapped John to budge him up, "you're hearing Moriarty. Why don't you take another pill to help calm you down, and I'll read more or you can watch a movie. Don't think on it anymore, I was being an idiot and I'm sorry." 

He despised John calling himself Pavlov and refused to acknowledge it further. John was not two different men, he was the same man adjusting to the fact that he'd been tortured, and that was the end of it.

John took out the small paper Greg's list was written on and held it up to be seen. 

"Number three. What you're feeling is okay. You can miss me. I miss me! I miss being alight, feeling good, running and talking and shopping and shooting and reading and blogging and working. I miss it all. You can miss me. You can miss my clarity because I know sure as hell that I miss it when it's gone. Number three. You can feel anything you want." 

John's eyes suddenly widened and he dropped the list as if it were going to burn him. 

"Oh! Oh, sorry, I forgot, I forgot you don't like- Jesus! Stupid, stupid, stupid!" 

John hastily folded it and tucked it back in his waistband. "Sorry! I didn't mean to use your list on you. I just...ah, words! I was just trying to show you that...to give evidence that I'm not just speaking from a place of torment, that you actually should be allowed to feel. I'm just being an idiot. Ignore me. Forget the list, please. I won't do that again."

Greg had just started to breathe and relax as his list was made into something useful and not something that caused John pain, when his own poor reaction to being forced to write the fucking thing ruined it all. The relief rushed out of him, leaving him with the now common feeling of getting off a rollercoaster, and he spoke in open defeat. 

"I didn't want to tell you what made me sad, because it wasn't fair to you and I knew it would hurt you, but I was made to say those things anyhow. And I don't like writing them because I'm a complete idiot, and I hurt you when it was too small, and then I hurt you when it was too long and-" he drew in a very slow breath before carrying on in monotone defeat. "I'm glad you understand number three, at least, that's the one that hurt you. I just...my missing that part of you hurts you, and I'm so tired of hurting you." 

John kept one hand over the list he had committed to memory and thought to the one on the wall. "You missing me doesn't hurt. I get it. Fuck, Greg, _I miss me._ I miss being clear. God, I never knew what a gift it was to be able to think straight! But that's not my fault. I...You said you don't like lists, and that they hurt you, but I have this one still because I need them. Lists help me. I like seeing what is happening so there aren't any surprises. I like...I like the control. Now, it doesn't hurt when you miss me. That's not what makes me sad." 

It had been the loss of identity that did it, hearing that he was sometimes John. A name is such a major part of a person's identity that hearing that he was only _sometimes_ John left him wondering what name he was to take the rest of the time. What was his identity when he wasn't John? 

Pavlov, for indeed, that was the name he now called himself in his mind, closed his eyes and tried to relax. "It doesn't hurt when you miss me. It hurts when I don't know, or don't like who I am."

Greg shook his head, "But you're always John. I just..it's a shortcut to say that you are being more like yourself than normal. You're always John, you never leave, you just get overwhelmed with all this terrible shit that was done to you. I- I want you to have the lists and I'm glad you made one with Paul. I was feeling trapped, you were very upset already and I knew I was going to make it worse and worse, so I didn't want to keep on with them. Please, can I read to you or...something? I'm...I shouldn't have said anything to Paul. You wanted me to talk to him and I messed up, I'm sorry. You were eating and drinking and happy, and...and look what I've done to all your progress. I...I don't fuck up when I'm reading to you. I can do that right, I think." 

John was greatly reassured to be told that he was always John, even if he was having difficulty believing it, as he so strongly did not want to be Pavlov. 

"You haven't messed up my progress. I'm...I'm feeling bad, but Christ knows I've had it worse. I love that you want to help. Can you read again? Oh, or work on my shoulders?" John's chest had gotten very tight from his constant rolling in of his shoulders. The pectoral muscles and tendons were tight and sitting straight felt odd to him. 

"Let's do that. I'm sore. Would you?"

John made soft sounds of contentment as his sore, tight muscles gradually began to relax and let go of the tension they clung to.

"Yeah, it helps a lot," John slurred slightly and his eyes didn't open. "You're magic. I love you. Lets forget about the hurting, okay? Lets just forget." 

There were still things that called for John's attention, such as his identity, if he was accepting blame over acknowledging loss of control, and how to go about helping Greg, but at this point, John was a master at self deception and could pretend those things neither mattered nor existed. 

"Let's just do this. This is good."

Greg pushed John forward slightly and quietly went to work. He made his best effort at shutting off his own mind as he worked John's shoulders, his thumbs carefully avoiding the areas where the muscle was either gone or severely pitted, working around the damage and with the new lines as much as he could. As time passed, his mind got away from him, walking him through the endless, endless mistakes he'd made, never learning from the goddamn things. Half an hour into working on John's muscles, his own posture was a mess, defeat and exhaustion curling his shoulders down and making breathing hard and overly taxing. 

"Is...does this help?"

John made soft sounds of contentment as his sore, tight muscles gradually began to relax and let go of the tension they clung to.

"Yeah, it helps a lot," John slurred slightly and his eyes didn't open. "You're magic. I love you. Let's forget about the hurting, okay? Let's just forget." 

There were still things that called for John's attention, such as his identity, if he was accepting blame over acknowledging loss of control, and how to go about helping Greg, but at this point, John was a master at self deception and could pretend those things neither mattered nor existed. 

"Let's just do this. This is good."

Taking his cue to shut up, Greg nodded and carried on working along the muscles of John's shoulders, upper arms, and mid back. He would occasionally sweep his fingers through John's hair, but otherwise he manage to zone out, quiet as he carefully touched him, letting time bleed down and away without much notice. 

"You're wonderful. I love you. Love you." 

John was shortly asleep despite the pain and torment that attempted to force it's way into his mind. He wouldn't be bothered with it, not when Greg's fingers worked his skin and muscle with such gentleness. 

Greg let the utterly false praise roll off his back like water on a duck, rest back against the headboard, and stared up at the ceiling. He was exhausted, and very terribly needed to sleep, but he couldn't be arsed with it. His mind had too much to supply him with by way of guilt, and he just lay there with John warm against him, steeping in his failure.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for your comments. It's amazing to see you so invested in this years-long work. I read everything, and it is awesome to watch. Thank you, thank you.


	35. Chapter 35

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So deeply sorry. Amphi is an adopted person who found her family after many years of searching, and the last few months have been a whirlwind. More chapters for all you patiently loyal readers <3

John woke with a start and wrapped himself around Greg more completely. Slowly he repeated Greg's list over in his mind until in was cemented into his brain so firmly that he couldn't possibly disobey it. 

Today, he would do better. He had to. "Greg?" John's voice was just above a whisper and he touched his face gently. 

Greg shifted and pulled John in closer, eyes closed, still very tired. "Hmm?" he hummed in sleepy exhaustion, having only been down a few hours. He shifted so that they were on their sides, dropping his leg over John's just under the knee. "You okay?" he asked quietly, his voice gruff with sleep, even as he blindly kissed John's forehead. 

John smiled so his voice was soft and nuzzled under Greg's chin. "Yeah, I'm doing alright. Sorry. I'll stay asleep. I didn't know you were sleepy." He intertwined his fingers with Greg's and tried to be peaceful. "Love you."

Greg opened his eyes, leaving John the hand that he'd twined his fingers around, stretching out the other. He was tired, but the last thing he wanted was himself out of it and John alone with his thoughts. The sun was up, the night gone anyhow. He could manage. 

"Tea? It's..." he tipped his watch, squinting, "Jesus, it's already half nine. I'll make you breakfast, yeah?"

John closed his eyes and yawned as he stretched. "We can stay here for just a few more minutes," he said in a voice thick with sleep. "Give you a few minutes to wake up. Besides,I like staying here. I like this."

To give example, he worked one arm between the blankets underneath Greg and pulled both him and a mess of covers closer still.

Greg hummed and allowed John to move him, keeping himself close as he allowed his eyes to close again, exhausted and nearly instantly falling right back asleep. He'd spent most of the night staring up at the darkening ceiling, running his mind over the tragedy of speaking to Paul, of saying those words aloud. 

For a solid hour, he heavily debated getting up and giving John every sedative injection they had already prepared, sending him off to a quiet peace that Greg himself could not damage, before taking the remainder of the pills in the room himself and just lying down, closing his eyes for the last time. 

But John had, at least before Greg seriously fucked it all up, wanted to _live_ and who the hell was he to take that from John after he'd fought so, so hard to get where he was? The night left him feeling trapped and helpless, no solution in place or even in his mind. He couldn't talk to John. He couldn't talk to Paul. He couldn't talk to Mycroft. He was doing a shit job of depending on himself. He'd fallen asleep with a heavy, broken heart and woken up hopeless, glad that John was keen on staying in bed. 

John was having very similar thoughts, but on the opposite spectrum. Perhaps, if he couldn't do anything to make Greg happy, if all he caused was pain, his death would be a blessing. Maybe just one, final grief would save Greg from all the others that John inflicted daily. 

In some small semblance of clarity, John tried to think of what it would be like were their roles reversed. Would he like it for Greg to kill himself to save him from pain? John shuddered internally at the thought of Greg's corpse, his body, and empty shell that decidedly was not his Greg. He would go mad, simply, or he would die. 

John brushed his fingers over Greg's cheek and debated his options. It he told Greg of this, it would hurt him, but he didn't want to make a decision on his own. 

"Greg, I know you don't like questions like this, but would you answer something honestly?"

Greg inhaled slow and deep, keeping his eyes closed, expecting a shock of adrenalin and finding that he felt nothing outside of a cold, sinking dread which he was entirely resigned to. No matter what the question was, it was bound to be one Greg couldn't answer without error. 

He leaned into John's touch and spoke with his eyes still closed, his own heart beating very slow and steady. "I will," he whispered in reply.

John continued to brush his fingertips over Greg's cheek and spoke quietly. 

"I really don't want to hurt you with this question, but I need to know either way. Would it be easier for you...well, I know your life would be easier now if I had just died with Moriarty a day in, but would it make the rest of your life better if I were to die soon? If not, I'll ignore it. I'll never consider it again. I don't really want to die, but I'd rather do that than carry on living if it hurts you. Really, if the answer is yes, I'll leave. If it's no, I'll drop it. I just want you to know that..." John dropped his head and blinked rapidly to clear his eyes. "...that I'm willing."

Greg was deeply glad that he had his eyes closed already. He didn't think he could bear watching John's expression as he offered his own life in return for Greg's sodding _comfort_. He forced himself to breathe, to keep his back and his shoulders physically relaxed, and to hold his tongue until he could be calm and _think_. 

He was quiet for nearly a minute before he trusted his voice. "I can't think of anything that would be more devastating than to bury you, John," he said honestly, because he wouldn't do it. He wouldn't put John in the ground. He refused. 

"If you need space from me, John, I'll give it to you. I know I've...made a complete mess of all of this. But please, put it out of your mind. I wouldn't survive it." 

John exhaled in relief, as he hadn't really wanted to die, though God knows he would have been willing. His tense shoulders relaxed and he bowed his head. 

"Okay. Okay, I'll forget about it. I like it with you, and I love you, and I don't want to die... I just..." John whimpered and pressed the second knuckles on his fingers to his teeth. 

"I just wanted you to know that...that I..." John's voice dipped and he covered it with a cough. "That I am willing." 

John whimpered and spoke into his hands. "If I become a burden, if I'm hurting you too much... You have my permission to help me leave. You can let me go. I don't want to be a burden, Greg. You can send me a away, or put me somewhere or let me go if you need to." 

John squeezed his eyes shut as grief washed over him. He was speaking from a place of pure self loathing that made him view himself as a parasite, and he held Greg's hand tightly. 

"I am willing, if you ever need me gone." 

Oh, it was _hell_. Greg could not bear to open his eyes for a few seconds longer and then he hand John's face between his hands, pulling him up and pressing their lips together, slow and warm, lingering for many seconds before he pulled slowly back. 

"Please, John, please stop. I hear you, I hear that you are willing to go if I need you to go. I hear what you are saying to me. I...John, please hear me now, okay?" 

He drew in a slow breath and again pressed his lips, warm, soft, and dry to John's, pulling back much faster this time. "I am not sad because of you. I am sad for a lot of reasons and not a single one is your fault, and not a single one would be alleviated with you leaving. I'm not going to talk to you about them, and I'm not going to talk to Paul or Mycroft about them, but I _will_ get it under control and you won't have to deal with me like this much longer. I love you. I need you here." 

John didn't know what he had done to deserve the wonderful, brilliant, comforting affection he received from Greg, but he relaxed fully and went nearly limp in Greg's arms. 

"Okay...Okay, I'll stop. I just didn't want you to be stuck with me if you didn't want me. I'm..." John laughed from relieving tension and tangled his legs up more completely with Greg's. 

"I am so glad you want me. I don't want to be a burden to you, and I am so glad you still want me. Thank you. I'll...You should talk to Paul. I'm sorry I listened. It was wrong of me and I only thought I might learn something to help you with. So, please, I love you so much, and I don't want you to be sad. I won't leave. I don't want to leave. I just wanted to be sure you wanted me and weren't just stuck with me." 

John's heart was pained in his chest, and he redoubled his resolve to help this merciful, beautiful person he had been graced with. 

Like hell was Greg ever going to fall for that rot again. Greg Lestrade was an Englishman, even if his sir name belonged to the French, he had been raised in an environment where your issues were your own and that was what he was going to stick back to. Each and every time he'd reached for help, he'd been burned, set back and punished with is failure for days or weeks at a time. He'd touched the stove enough, he'd find another way. 

"Paul will be here most evenings to talk with you. I'll take that time for myself, perhaps if I go outside and take a walk I'll gather my head back at the end of the day. Or I'll have a bath, or...something. I'll figure my head out, and hopefully Paul can help you better than I can. During the day, I'll...nothing will change. I'll cook for you and we'll watch telly and you can sit with your birds and..." his voice broke, taking him by surprise. He cleared his throat, eyebrows knit. Why in the hell had he so abruptly become emotional over _nothing_? 

"And it will be fine. We'll get back to how we were before I messed it up, and it will be fine." 

John didn't particularly like Paul, but at this stage he would rather sort things out than ignore potential help. 

"I'll work with Paul, but you'll always be my favorite person to talk to." John gave a tiny, barely visible smile and tucked his chin on Greg's shoulder. 

He was severely depressed, in the area that while he viewed his life, his situation and his relationships to be above and beyond fantastic, he viewed himself as lower than a villain, awful, repulsive and much like a cancer, dangerous to everyone around him. 

"You love me, and I can feel it, and God, it helps to be loved. You didn't mess it up, and..I suppose I didn't either. Neither of us did anything wrong, it just happened." John didn't believe this, as he still held himself accountable, but that didn't matter much. "Neither of our faults. It happened because of what Moriarty did. Let's blame him instead of ourselves."

That was decidedly welcome. It had been Moriarty, and Greg was glad to hear John shirking away from claiming responsibility. Though, it had not been Moriarty who said those fucking _stupid_ words in regards to whether or not Greg should love John. It had been selfish of him to try and assuage his guilt, anyhow. He felt bad, because he should feel bad, and there were no words to get around it. 

He was now, however, trapped in one hell of a situation. John had bid him not pull away of be distant, to tell him when he was hurting, to talk about what was on in his mind. Then John fell apart and left Greg to soak in his failure, and when he came back it was days and days of misery. Then if Greg remained sad, he was again forced to speak or lie, but John had been able to catch him lying, which pitted John back down into despair. And then he'd foolishly allowed John to bully him into speaking to Paul, and oh god had it felt good to speak to Paul, only for that to end in guilt-ridden anguish. He didn't want John to be gone, but he sure as fuck was tired of being here. 

He realized with a start that he had slowly begun to long for the day when John remembered that he was in love with Sherlock, and Sherlock him, and said goodbye to Greg so that Greg could just put a round through the back of his useless skull and _finally_ stop. All he wanted in the world was to stop, because this...this was too much, there was no relief. 

"Can I make you tea?"

Perhaps it would be better to die, John thought as he smiled at Greg. Maybe Greg was only lying about wanting him to make him feel better. He was a nice person, and it did seem like something he would do. 

_Oh, pet, how could he love you? You're his pet now. You're always a pet. You were Sherlock's pet, then my pet, now Greg's pet. Nobody really wants you. You're a disease, a parasite, a cancer, an idiot, a liability and a burden to everyone you come in contact with._

John began to hum in earnest as Moriarty whispered into his ear, though it did little good. "Tea. Yeah, I'd love tea. I want some tea. Tea would be good." John sat up and seemed to shy away from something invisible. 

_Burden. Stupid. Cancer. Pest._

Greg sat up with John, staring at him for a moment. "Hey," he said quietly, reaching out and touching John's face gently, "Hey, what are you hearing? What's in your head right now? I want you to talk to me, anything at all, okay? I don't care what it is, I want to know." 

John had been recoiling from _something_ and Greg didn't like the manic way he was suddenly speaking, not one bit. "John, please talk to me."   
"Tea," John said again and flinched again, this time from the opposite direction. "Let's have tea. Tea is good. Tea-" He blinked and seemed to notice Greg again, and fear shone on his face. 

"Saying things," he whispered harshly and took Greg's hands. He placed them over his ears and pressed, eyes closed, while the voice whispered into his ear as if spoken from just a centimeter away. 

"Can feel it...Saying bad things. Bad things. Let's go get tea."

Greg pulled John right into his lap and held him tight against his chest, one hand over John's exposed ear, the other wrapped around the side of John's hip. He wasn't about to expose John to boiling water when Moriarty was in his ear. 

"Bad things? Well then you can bash him over the head with good things. Ready? I love you. I think you are the strongest, bravest man I've ever known. I think you have beautiful eyes, and you are the best at Rummy. You can whisper to those little birds, and you can fire off a crack shot like no man's business. You are indomitable, you are a survivor, and you are my best mate on earth." 

John poured every ounce of energy into listening to the good things, not the bad things. The feeling of Greg's hand over his ear helped remove the sensation of Moriarty's breath, and within a few minutes John had calmed. 

He did not move yet, however, and kept himself pressed against Greg's chest. "Okay. Okay. Thank you. I... He says bad things, and I don't want to listen to them. Thank you. I'm alright now, I think."

Greg rocked John slowly, pressing a kiss to the top of his head. "I know, I know, Sherlock hears them too. It's not just you. It will pass, I promise you it will pass. Are you feeling safe enough for tea, or should we watch a bit of telly first and let you calm down?" 

He despised that John was still hearing voices, it broke his heart to no end. "I'm so sorry you still hear him, that must be very frightening."

"It's not that often," John said and absently rubbed his arm as if it were sore, though he felt no actual pain. "Sometimes I can just...I don't know...sort of, feel him? I can feel him...ah...directing? Directing my thoughts. Yeah, I can feel that. He just controls what I think, even if it isn't his voice." 

John sat up and slowly got up out of bed. His posture was hunched, with absolutely no trace of his military background, which had always prompted him to carry himself upright. His shoulders pulled together and his chin was tucked in as if shying away, though he wasn't consciously aware of it.

"Let's go get some tea. I'm okay for tea. He wasn't talking about water, just... Just about me. I'm okay for tea."

Greg stopped off swiftly in the lav before going to the kitchen, rushing through his own care. He put the kettle on as he always did, and went for the tea Sherlock, the poor bastard, had sent. He brewed them both a cup, and set to making John an egg and a bit of yogurt. Mornings seemed the easiest time for John to eat. 

"Is there anything I can do to help you feel safer, John?" He asked quietly as he dropped ice in John's tea, setting his scrambled egg on a plate as well and salting it lightly, "I...anything at all?"

John sat on the couch and absently touched his scruffy face. There was a place that the hair wouldn't grow from a scar, and while he was certain it would look good if he were some sort of action hero, on his weak frame he knew it just added to his disfigurement. John waited until the ice had fully melted to begin his routine with testing the temperature of the tea by leaving the spoon in, waiting one minute, taking it out, tapping it dry and carefully touching it. 

"I feel safe," he responded as he made sure for the third time in a row that the water had not spontaneously become scalding. "Just a bit sad. But we can do fun things today, yeah? We'll just...do some nice stuff and I'll be alright. Let's maybe play Rummy, then see the birds, then I'll work on the water, then...something good after that, and then we'll eat again." He began with the eggs first, and while his nerves were a bit on edge as he did so, he managed to keep his hands from shaking without too much difficulty. Perhaps Greg would want to know. 

"This is much easier now," John explained with a smile. "Thank you."

Greg smiled back at John, sensing something to be deeply off but not wanting to press it. "Rummy is a good idea, we'll do that, I'm going to win one of these days, you watch out." 

He watched as John picked at the egg and wondered how much longer it was going to take to at least get him eating properly. "Will you still see Paul today? Think he's going to come here when he's off shift. He...I gave him one of your shirts to take to Sherlock, I hope that's alright." 

John wanted to be happy that eating was getting easier, but didn't think he should if Greg wasn't. It wasn't a big deal anyway. What sort of man gets excited because he's able to eat without crying?

"Course I'll see Paul. You said it was good for me." John took another bite of eggs and noted that it was much easier when he was talking about something else. "I'm glad you gave him something," John continued and kept on eating. 

"He needs the comfort. Maybe we can make him something when he starts eating again. Maybe I could go see him when I'm good enough to."

Greg visibly relaxed when it was clear that John had not recoiled at the idea of Sherlock having a shirt of his, and then even further when he mentioned seeing Sherlock. It was a different tune than a few days ago, where John had been nothing but anger or indifference to him. Greg still held minimal hope that Sherlock would allow himself to live, but it was a start. 

"That'd be great, John. Mycroft is always asking for help, but he understands that Sherlock is a...difficult subject for you. Damn, look at you go! You've nearly finished that egg!" 

John looked up in appreciation when Greg acknowledged his efforts and pure elation shone on his face. "It's easier when I'm talking. You know, maybe someday I'll be good enough that we can eat someplace. You, me, and Sherlock could all go out to eat. That might be nice." 

As he spoke, John finished the egg and was immensely pleased with himself for the small success.

Greg could hardly believe what John was saying. "With...with Sherlock? That would be...that would be amazing, John. You put that egg down so fast, that was nearly a normal eating speed for you, do you realize that? Christ, I'm proud of you." His eyes burned as he leaned forward and pulled John to him, kissing his temple and breathing in deep, choked up with relief and pride.   
"You...damn I'm proud of you." 

John added two things to his list; talking about doing things with Sherlock and eating. He planned to collect all the things that made Greg happy in order to be less of a burden. 

"Yeah, once I get used to him better, it would be nice. Just like we used to at the pub, but I think we should start somewhere quiet first." 

He was simply glowing with happiness from Greg's praise and affection, and he laughed with the mirth of being appreciated. 

Greg was more relaxed than he'd been at any point since they'd come home. He carried on holding on to John, the tension in his body swiftly draining away at the reality that John even wanted to consider Sherlock in their future. 

"That...god that would be brilliant, just brilliant, I...Jesus, yeah, that...good, all good," he stammered, overwhelmed with the relief of it

John's heart sang and he laughed again with glee at having finally helped Greg. He hadn't had to lie, either. Going out to dinner with Sherlock and Greg, according to those tapes, would be quite enjoyable.

"Oh, you are beautiful! I love you!" John ruffled Greg's hair and gave him a strong, happy, tight hug.

Greg felt as though he could properly breathe for the first time in...years, really. He clung to John and pressed his face to John's neck, gooseflesh blooming over his arms and back in the wake of stress bleeding away from his body. He held tight, properly smiling as his shoulders relaxed and he allowed himself to just be in that moment without thought to the next. 

"I...god that's...needed to hear..." his voice was wrecked but for once, with relief and happiness, once again breathing deep. 

"Sherlock's got a place where the owner will do literally anything for him. Sherlock got him off a murder charge, and he's been grateful since. Keeps a table open for him all the time. We could go there. I'm sure they would be accommodating." 

John was wriggling with happiness, which was such a strange energy when compared to the exhaustion of depression. 

"I love you! Thank you so much for everything you do. You're brilliant, amazing, fantastic and wonderful."

Greg laughed at that. "Angelo, yeah, he...yeah," he thought it best not to tell John that the little table had been roped off and black all replacing the white linens, Angelo convinced Sherlock was dead and John gone. Most of the public believed so, anyhow. He tightened his hold on John, soaking in the praise, allowing himself the few moments of mercy. 

"I love you too, John, god I needed a morning like this. You did too..I'm...god this is a relief."

John nuzzled under Greg's chin and his eyes shone with glee that had been so distant and foreign to him the past few, long days.   
"I'm glad we're finally getting this right. I'm glad I could articulate and eat, and that you noticed. You're wonderful, you know that?" 

John laid down across Greg's lap so he could prop his feet on one arm of the couch and look up at Greg. "I like this. I like you." He prodded at Greg's stomach playfully.

Greg abruptly laughed, intensely ticklish, huffing at John with a smile. "Oi!" He grinned widely at John's playfulness and ruffled his hair. "We should pick out a dog today. What do you think?"

Though incredibly interested in the thought of a dog, John was still a bit caught up by Greg's laugh. He tickled him again and sat up to prevent any attempts of escape.

"You wanker!" Greg cried out as he laughed, very carefully fussing with John's hands as he tried half-heartedly to evade. John had _never_ been like this with him and while he was allowing the game, he wasn't about to reach out and try to get John back other than a very light little brush along his belly. 

"Ach! Shouldn't have laughed!" he cackled as John ribbed him. 

Spurred by his smile and the desperate need for Greg to keep laughing, John tackled him sideways onto the couch and pinned him. While he knew he wouldn't have been able to were Greg resisting, John knew this was all in good sport. 

"You've doomed yourself! Now that I know you're ticklish, I'll get you when you least expect it!"

Greg toppled easily for John, their play cathartic and so deeply needed, just this pointless interaction that was nothing more than laughter and fun. John was heavier than the last time Greg had lifted him, which was deeply welcome news, and he twisted gently and pretended to cower with a goofy smile on his face. 

"I'm sunk!" He shouted happily, "you've sunk me, John!" he was in tears from laughing, extremely ticklish to the point that sometimes he had to use great restraint not to seriously topple John in an effort to return the play. 

John was grinning like a madman and his eyes sparkled with joy. He hadn't been this light, airy, and carefree for so long that he felt ready to burst. 

With a loud, genuine laugh, John pinned Greg's hands and gave him a challenging look. "What, give up so easy? Come on, inspector, don't let me win!"

Greg cracked a hard laugh at that, shaking his head, "You impossible man," he rumbled, giving John a tiny bit of strength to work against. It would help build John's muscles, and hopefully make him feel the strength he still retained and failed to notice. Greg twisted his hips just a bit to push John more towards the back of the sofa, slowly working on freeing just one wrist. 

"Why did I let you know I'm ticklish!"

John let go of the wrist as soon as Greg struggled with it, but quickly snatched it back up again. It was far easier and used less energy, and he held on with a very light, but very persistent grip. How he remembered to do so, he hardly knew. 

"I know your weakness! Now I can exploit it like any good friend would!" John struggled with his still weak muscles, but paid his hindered body no mind as he released his hold with one hand to prod at Greg's ribs again.

Greg broke into desperate laughter as he moved to protect his ribs, cracking up as he curled around himself. 

"You're too much!" he shouted happily, taken completely with all of this from John. Finally he reached up when breathing became too hard around the laughter, wrapping his arms around John and gently pulling him down against his chest, cuddling him there. 

"Oh sweet Jesus I needed a laugh!" 

John laid against Greg's chest and continued to chuckle to himself. His stomach ached with the force of his laughing, which was extremely pleasant when paired with the light hearted, fuzzy brained way John was feeling. 

"You're great, Greg. Do you know that? You'd better admit that you're fantastic or I'll tickle you again."

Greg laughed again, moving John up and down for a moment with the force of it. 

"Oh, I'm bloody brilliant," he said in a mock tone, just to placate John. He was grinning ear-to-ear and breathing deep and slow, the brilliant relief of it all so intensely overwhelming his toes curled. 

"I'm a damn grown man and this is still hilariously fun." 

"What was it? Someone said.. An old man is twice a child." Neither of them were very old, and in that moment John felt like a child. 

"Maybe we'll be old and crazy and scare kids off someday. Oh! Dog! Can we get a dog?"John sat up abruptly and seemed to vibrate with excitement. 

Greg sat up and smiled, "Yeah, John, we can. I was thinking either a puppy or...and I've thought a lot about this, there are retired police dogs that always need homes. You with a big, retired police German, I think that might do well, but it's up to you." 

John's face grew pensive and he hummed to himself. "If we get a puppy, well, frankly, it'll be around longer and we'll get to train it. If it's a police dog, it's less likely to panic if I get upset. Either way it's a good option. I think you should decide. We can't really go wrong." 

Greg nodded, "Retired dog, they are only about six years old, he's got years and years left. I've already emailed a buddy of mine from the Yard and I think I've got a great one lined up for you. He's been shot and stabbed before, but he's functioning just fine, in great health, and the calmest, most massive thing you've seen. If you are interested, oh, here look," he drew out his mobile and showed John the email exchanges, pulling up a picture of the huge German Shepard, mouth open and tongue out in a happy smile. 

He's been hurt, but he's happy and calm. I like him." John took Greg's mobile and looked at it for a while. "Shepherds are clever, too. I like that. Don't want a yappy little thing either. He's beautiful. Could we really have him? Won't he need walks? I don't know... I should practice going outside first, right? I want to be able to walk him."

Greg nodded, "Yeah, we'll need to take him out, but I think it will help you tremendously to have him with us. You can watch me take him down from the balcony until you are ready. He's not high energy, he'll be happy to laze about with us." He leaned in and kissed him gently. 

"His name, are you ready for this? Is Gladstone and we can have him here today if you want." 

John nodded vigorously and looked at the picture again. "Gladstone. I love it. He's beautiful. Today? Really? That would be fantastic. I'd love it. Please?" John got up and stood in front of Greg, his hands clasped together and his expression exuberant.

Greg beamed up at John, pressing a few places on his mobile. With one hand he held the device to his ear, the other he used to reach out, wrapping his arm around John's back at his hips and pulling him close, resting his forehead against John's belly. 

"Eli, hi, yeah it's Greg. Mhm, that's right, is it all settled then? Paperwork in order? Can you bring him with everything, bit hard to get out- oh! Well shit, you're on it as always, that's- three? Sounds fantastic. Don't knock, just text me, yeah? Great, great, okay, thanks so much Eli." 

He rang off and looked up at John, his chin just at the level of his trouser band, "He'll be here at three," he said with a happy smile.

John wrapped his arms around Greg's neck and rocked side to side. "Oh, thank you! this is fantastic! We're going to have a dog! Gladstone. I love him already. Do you think he'll like us? I hope he does. I suppose happy dogs like that like everyone, but I hope he ends up being loyal." 

John let go of Greg and held him at arm's length. Greg was the most beautiful human being in the entire world, and John didn't think he had the words to express it. 

"You...God, you are so amazing. Really! Can you imagine what we would have said when this all started, when I was fresh and still in the hospital, if we went and told ourselves that we'd be laughing, getting a dog and staying happily at your place? We've done so well! _You've_ done so well!"

It was a gross gloss-over of reality, and while Greg was thrilled with the ability to live in the moment for now, he couldn't help but hold tight to reality. That, and Sherlock...Sherlock was still a loss, and while it all pained him, this moment was wonderful and he was going to do what he could to keep it. 

"Thank you, John," he said honestly, pressing his cheek to John's belly, "I am so proud of you I can hardly contain it. And yeah, I've worked with Gladstone, he's _massive_ but he's a very friendly dog so long as you're not some criminal idiot brandishing a knife. He's very protective, I think he's a perfect, perfect fit for you. Long fur and a massive head, he's aces to lay on. Slept on his belly once during a long standoff." 

John already loved the dog, or loved the idea of him, and he checked the clock. "Three hours. I'm excited! I haven't had a dog since I was little. Maybe Sherlock will like it. He could visit. Or live with us. Still haven't decided. Let's work that out later."

Absolutely not. Thoughts of the future were not going to cloud his clarity, and John was perfectly clear, if a bit damaged. He flopped back down onto the couch next to Greg, where he put his head in his lap and dangled his legs off one edge of the couch. "A big dog is better. I never liked the little ones, you know, the ones you might accidentally step on or might get eaten by a cat."

Greg hummed, "I've never had a pet, I might be rubbish with them. I hope not, Gladstone is a great dog, but you? You're good with animals, I know this will be fine." 

Sherlock would likely never see the dog, but that couldn't be helped today. For a moment he wondered if it was cruel to give Sherlock one of John's shirts. He curled up with his wife's pillow for the scent of it until it had faded, bitterly aching every time. "I'm excited for the dog, this will be good, and I think you'll feel even safer with him around." 

John nodded and smiled up at Greg from his lazy, relaxed position. "Yeah, he'd make it easier to feel safe. Between you and a dog, I can't get much safer." 

He reached up and brushed Greg's cheek, which reminded him once again just how beautiful the man was. "I'm sure you'll be great with him. You're great with me, and dogs aren't nearly as complicated."

Greg smiled at John and dog up, stretching. "Cards are in the desk drawer. I'm going to make us lunch. There are cards I'm the desk, set us up Rummy?"

He stood and pulled John into a bear hug, kissing his temple, before going into the kitchen and getting a quick meal together. When he returned, he had a glass of iced, sweet lemonade and a bowl of warm, nearly clear chicken broth for John, and a small sandwich for himself. He set the tray down and smiled at John. 

"Ready to kick my arse at cards?"


	36. Chapter 36

"Yeah, I got it." John was in ecstasy and his spirits soared high above were they had been even before the incident. He bounced and wiggled in his seat, not out of discomfort, but as a way to do something with all the energy he suddenly had excess of. 

With the cards dealt, John started the game and his tongue stuck out the corner of his mouth. 

"This is a good day."

Greg beamed at him, curious to see how eating would go with a new offer of good and drink served with straws. He took up the cards John dealt him even as he bit into his sandwich, chewing.

He played his hand, honestly trying to win this time. "Let's see your best," he said with a grin.

New food was a bit disconcerting, but John was in a fantastic mood and it was much easier to consider with his clarity. Besides, it was iced. Couldn't hurt him. John took a small sip with the straw as he began the game, and found it both harmless and sweet. 

"Maybe someday I'll go easy on you."

An hour later, Greg had come very close to tying with John, though he still lost. He'd finish his sandwich and looked to see how John did with the broth. 

"That was close, I'm getting better, watch out," he said with a wide grin.

John didn't have much of a desire to eat at the moment, as he didn't wish to ruin his clarity with the muddled cloud of stress it would bring, but he could tell Greg was waiting and began anyway. "Right, of course you are," he said sarcastically. "Maybe if you try again you'll get closer."

Greg felt another hand, disheartened that John had not tried to eat. "One more round then," he said with an easy smirk, though he kept an eye on the broth.

John started with the broth, since he could see Greg watching it, and did everything in his power to keep distracted between spoonfuls. "Of course. Do you think we would work on going outside sometime? I'd like to be able to walk Gladstone eventually."

Greg beamed at him, bidding straight away. "That would be brilliant, John. The courtyard has a little path, and the block surrounding these flats is calm enough that my kids-" he suddenly stopped, looking down and swallowing before gathering himself back, smiling, "so little traffic the kids would bike. It's a good little area if you want to walk. It would be great to get out."

John added eating and talking willingly about self improvment to his list and took another spoonful of broth.

"That would be lovely. Thank you." John put the cards down and reached out to take Greg's hand. "I'm sorry about what happened with them."

Greg covered John's hand with is own after setting his cards down, scooting closer to him and slowly wrapping John into a hug, tipping his face to John's shoulder and breathing deep and slow for a moment. He'd not had time to mourn his family properly. When John had been taken, he was in a divorce, but his wife made no threat of taking the kids and leaving the country. He was still thrilled with John and his spirits uplifted, but talk of his children made him desperate for a gentle hug and a moment of comfort. 

"Me too," he whispered, his heart squeezing hard before he kissed John's cheek and drew back, pressing a kiss to his knuckles. 

John rubbed Greg's back and tucked him in close. "It's okay to be sad. I understand. I really do. What happened to you was awful. There is nothing more important than family, and to have it taken is horrible. You're a strong man, a good man, and a wonderful person. You'll make it through this." 

He smiled in love and adoration for the man that was clear on his face. 

Greg hummed and nodded as John spoke, "I'll figure it out with them soon, I will, but I'm...I've got you for family now, yeah? That helps more than I can explain. I know sometimes it's hard for you to believe that, but you are my family no matter what happens, and..." he scooted back to where he was, "I'm going to hand you your arse at this round." 

John smiled at him. "I'm glad you consider me your family. That helps beyond measure. It helps so much to know that you'll be there. Removes the uncertainty, you know? I never knew what was coming. You know... with him. But you keep me steady." John resumed the game, and his expression was tranquil and happy.

Greg very lightly nudged John's foot halfway through the game, "I can warm up that broth again, it will give you a good bit of energy if you can manage it. Could put it in a cup with a straw if that would be easier," he offered, just wanting to get more calories into John. He hated to push, but John was doing extraordinarily well and Greg wanted that tube out of his nose more than anything. 

John looked at the broth and pursed his lips. "Yeah, I know. I know. I'll finish it. I promise." He took another few spoonfuls, and honestly didn't mind it was cold. 

"I just love this. I can think straight and I'm not worried about anything. God, it's a relief."

Greg smiled warmly as he played a few more hands with John, breathing easy, greatly looking forward to Gladstone's arrival. John would surely feel better with a highly trained, seasoned dog with him. 

Half an hour later, Greg lost again. "Ach! One day I'm going to get you at this damn thing." 

The companionship and light hearted competition were proving to be incredibly therapeutic for John, who slapped the last of his cards down gleefully. "One day, but no time soon. One hour. One hour and we'll have a dog!" He got up and looked around the flat. 

"We'll need food, and a bed, and things like that, right?"

Greg beamed at him John, nodding. "Eli is bringing his things, but we can order things online if you want. He'll have food and a bone, likely a rope or some toy or something, but yeah we can get him things." He stood up and stretched before taking the food and drinks away. From the kitchen he called out, "Let's not forget your starling, want to feed it before Eli gets here?"

“It'll be great to play with a dog. I watched a documentary once about a lab that went to hospitals and helped patients recover. Maybe Gladstone will do that too." 

John stood and looked outside towards the feeder. "Yeah, lets. I wonder if he'll get a mate. Does he have one? Had he made a nest?"

Greg smiled at the window, "Well they seem to mate every year around this time, I bet he does. Let's go feed him and wait for your dog."

"Alright, I'll get the bread." John went into the kitchen and came back with the loaf, as he figured that going in the kitchen when there wasn't hot metal and boiling water would make it easier when there was. 

Greg took his phone and went outside, leaving the door open wide for John. He sat down in the warm sun and hovered over Mycroft's name on the screen before finally forcing himself to text. 

_I apologize for being so silent. Things have been very difficult here. Paul is coming with a shirt of John's, I hope it helps. Please let me know if I can do anything._

He looked up as John came out, smiling at him. "He keeps bringing more friends," he remarked of the larger gaggle of birds. 

Mycroft's response was immediate and as positive as he could manage. 

_A shirt would be very helpful, I believe. If you have any more pictures, send them. The last one helped and is printed in various sizes about the room._

John was having a bit of a hard time separating his bird from the group, and decided to toss the bread very close to himself, where hopefully only the trained one would go. "Yeah, he does. They're nice, but it's easier with just one."

Greg read Mycroft's text with sinking dread. If they were plastering images of John everywhere, that meant they were hoping John would _be there_ at the end of this. While John was having a good day, his optimism regarding Sherlock was the exception, not the rule. What the hell was he supposed to do with that? 

_Headway with John regarding Sherlock is...fluid and variable. I wish I had better news. Progress is...mixed. I don't know how much help John will be in the future, Mycroft. But I will still be around, and I can call at any time if it will help him. I've not forgotten your brother._

He looked over at John and smiled, "You're own fault for being so great." 

John was ignorant of the struggle Greg and Mycroft had, ignorant of how emotionally dependant on him so many people were, and ignorant of how persistent Mycroft was willing to be. He happily fed the birds and got the starling to come near his shoes. 

_Just please get him used to the idea of visiting. For now, that's all I ask. Visits. Neighbors. Sherlock would abhor it, but I'm hoping it will be a stepping stone._

Greg leaned over and kissed John's cheek, nuzzling at his neck for a moment before replying to Mycroft.

_Today is a good day, and he's optimistic about visits with Sherlock "Once I'm used to him," he says, so it's not out of his head. We are trying, I push too hard at times and make it worse. I'm trying, Mycroft, I'm trying._

John smiled blissfully at the affection and continued to draw the bird up until it was between his feet, hopping about merrily. "Mycroft?"

_I understand that now more than ever. Anything you need is yours._

Greg leaned in and brushed his shoulder against John's. "Yeah, I thought he could use a friend to talk to for a bit, is this okay?" 

_Likewise. How is Sherlock?_

John nodded and waved his hand dismissively. "Tell him to tell Sherlock I said hello. And thanks for the tea. But...Paul said Sherlock didn't want me to know...so..." John's brow furrowed and he strove to find the root of the request. "He's still afraid of hurting me, I think. Tell him to tell Sherlock that I said it meant a lot coming from him and I hope he's feeling clearer." 

Greg set his mobile aside and wrapped John tight in his arms, pulling him in for a tight, warm, elated hug. "You are perfect, just perfect." 

"You're perfect too." John spent the rest of the hour working with his bird, casually staying near it and getting it used to him. He was warm, happy, free of pain and stress, and looking forward to the time when his new dog would arrive.

_He's asleep. He had a shower/bath yesterday. It isn't one of his triggers, unless it gets cold. Then, it upsets him._

Mycroft had difficulty judging Sherlock, who could appear so calm, yet be so disturbed. He was next to him in bed, though Mycroft was sitting up, propped on pillows and Sherlock had been asleep for quite some time. "'Lock?"

Sherlock shifted, fingers going right to his lips, tensing before he opened his eyes. He looked up at Mycroft and then swept his eyes around the room, silent as he chewed at his fingers. 

Mycroft took the initiative to explain what was happening just in case Sherlock was having difficulty. "We're in a hospital. You more safe. Are you feeling alright? Would you like some water, or a warm bath?"

Sherlock kept his fingers to his lips, staring quietly, slowly allowing his eyes to linger on random objects in the room. He paused, of course, on John's face. For a very long time he said nothing at all, completely still, sucking on the very tips of his fingers in a bid to comfort himself. 

"Am I ever going to see home," he whispered around his fingers, his chest tight and his voice stressed. 

Mycroft leaned over and folded Sherlock into his arms. "Of course you will. You'll see home, and you'll see John, and it will make him happy to see you again. I know you don't believe the last part, but trust me, it's true." 

He hummed quietly to himself and looked over at the bottle of water he had on hand. "Thirsty?"

There was something in the way Mycroft casually asked the question. Not _do you want water_ , but rather an off-handed _thirsty_ , that twisted something dark and terrifying deep behind his ribs, under his heart. He began to cry then, pathetic and without hope, tense but not retreating as he breathed wildly around his fingers.   
"N-No! I'm- no! I-" he drew his hands up higher, sheltering his face while tears leaked down his cheeks, "no!" 

Mycroft's initial reaction was confusion. What had he done? Was that a trigger word? Was it his tone? Was Sherlock hearing voices? Either way, he was deeply apologetic and pulled the blankets up around Sherlock's shoulders. 

"Okay, okay. Whatever you want. We don't have to do anything you don't want. You're safe. It's just me, it's Mycroft."

Sherlock simply lay there, quietly crying, still and almost calm in his fear and grief. He wept until he slowly, quietly calmed, laying there with his fingers in his mouth, doing his best to remain as still and small as he could. 

Mycroft ran his fingers back through his hair and searched his mind for something that had worked. "Would you...do you want a bath? Of a shower? Or... I could read, or play music, or something."

Sherlock glanced up at his brother before looking away again, his focus resting on John's picture. It was difficult to put the day together and keep focused. His peripheral vision was fogged and he simply did not posses in that moment the ability to track time. At all. He whimpered quietly.

"Is he alive?"

And there was Sherlock's mental state in a single sentence. Mycroft smiled to keep himself from sounding disappointed and absently ran his fingers through Sherlock's hair. 

"Yes, he is alive. Alive and happy. He's drinking tea and eating. Very much alive."

Sherlock began to sweep the room again for John when Mycroft stated that John was alive and happy, confused and thinking that perhaps more time had elapsed than he thought. He settled his eyes on all of the chairs, and then shifted to look over his own shoulder, face falling as he failed to find John in attendance. Visibly he deflated, tucking his fingers back in his lips, curling his shoulders down and rocking slightly to comfort himself through the renewed heartbreak. 

"N-not here," he stated on a whisper, nodding to himself as he accepted that, "not here." 

Mycroft saw his searching and his own heart twinged in sympathy. 

"He's still not well enough to leave the house. I think... I think being away from where he is now stresses him. But he... He recieved the tea, and I'm sure it helped him." Perhaps that would give him a bit of a time frame.   
"I'm sorry he can't be here today. I could call Greg and ask him how John's doing, if you want. It wouldn't stress John at all.”

Sherlock's brow furrowed at the mention of tea and Greg. He closed his eyes, trying to think. 'Tea' and 'Greg' didn't fit anywhere.   
"I don't...I- I don't unders-stand why J-John isn't here," he whispered, no longer even trying for his mind palace. He kept up the rocking, though his free hand reached slowly out and wrapped in the material of Mycroft's trouser just at the side of his thigh, fisting in the fabric, knuckles leaching Mycroft's body heat through the cotton.

"John isn't here because he doesn't like to leave his flat. He's still very nervous about the outside world. He is working on that, though, and continues to make progress. I can call Greg and ask him how John is, if you want. It will not stress John." 

Mycroft wanted Sherlock to be clear about the last part, as his treatment with Moran had apparently made him hyper aware of hurting and frightening John. 

Sherlock frowned and rose his eyes to Mycroft's. "Wh-why would it s-stress John? He's...is-s he an-angry with m-me? Greg..Greg..." he repeated the name, trying to call anything to mind. He chewed at his fingers and looked down at himself, sucking in a sharp breath before pushing himself up on his elbow and tossing the blankets back, looking at his body, mostly clothed, catching sight of his arms. 

"My?!" He said in quiet alarm, "My what's...what..." 

"Sherlock, nobody is angry with you. Nobody is upset. John... I was just trying to help. Don't bother thinking about it. What is going on is you just woke up, you are still healing, and you are confused." 

Mycroft sat up and slowly moved the head of the bed up so Sherlock wasn't flat on his back. "But you're safe. You're very safe with me."

Sherlock turned to look at Mycroft, his shoulders shaking as stress slowly encompassed him. 

"Wh-what h-happened to m-me? What...what the f-f-fuck is all...all th-this?!" He reached down and caught sight of the pins in his arm, crying out as he covered them with his free hand, flashes of bloodied metal and screaming tearing through his mind without explanation, "Oh m-my god what..." he gagged, slowly becoming aware of the pain that settled over every single place in his body, "M-My?" 

Did he not remember? "Sherlock you..."

Ah, that's why he didn't know why John would be nervous about talking to him. "Sherlock, please, just take a deep breath. It's alright. Tell me what you remember, and I'll work from there. I can promise you that you are safe, will remain safe, and that John is also safe. Please, trust me. Tell me what you remember."

Sherlock stared at his hands, his fingers starting to shake terribly, "Oh g-god...I...w-was it...he was g-going to go to Af-f-frica and we fought. I- h-he was leaving and....and L-Lestrade w-was over having a p-pint with m-me after...he left m-me. He left..." 

Sherlock's voice stilled and his eyes slid unfocused at the memory of John walking out the door, the finality with which it shut. The words fell out of his mouth as though just now accepting them, the scars forgotten in the light of the -to Sherlock- worse revelation. "He actually l-left...he left...oh...g-god brother he...he _left_..." he tucked his fingertips back to his lips, rocking slightly in his pained confusion. 

_Oh, fuck_. If Sherlock was this upset about John going happily and willingly to Africa, what would happen when he remembered what had actually occurred? 

"Yes but...he came back. He's... He's staying at Greg's for a bit. Greg's wife left him with his kids, so he's been in need of company. Do you want to talk to Greg?" Either way, Mycroft was calling for some sort of backup. He texted Paul and Greg in group, hoping one would have something to offer. 

_Sherlock can not recall anything after John leaving for Africa. He just 'realized' that part and it devastated him. Did this ever happen to John?_

Paul responded first. 

_I'm on my way up, try to keep what you tell him to a minimum._

With Greg's right on his heels.

_Jesus. No, it didn't._

Sherlock was not reacting to Mycroft though, lightly tracing his hands as though seeing them for the first time. "I...I've been...what's h-happened to...John l-left and he's n-n-not here...he's a doctor why...why isn't..." his eyes cut slowly over to the picture of John with a sinking sense of dread, whining as though he'd just discovered John's body, reaching out with a trembling hand and grabbing it. 

"Oh my god, oh my g-god, _John_...oh f-fucking Christ he's..." he dropped the picture, watching it hit the floor before reaching up and touching his nose, feeling the tube, looking back down at his extremely thin frame. "I...oh god...oh g-god." 

_Shit!_ Mycroft pulled Sherlock's attention away from the picture by abruptly pulling his brother flush against his chest and keeping his head in place. 

"It's alright. It is important that you breathe. I wouldn't lead you astray. Deep breathes. I can explain everything, but you need to be very calm. I’ll explain, but you need to calm yourself down first, alright? John is alright. He's with Greg. You are safe with me."

_Hurry._

Paul literally ran down the hall, his footfalls loud before he stopped abruptly in the doorway, watching Sherlock tucked against his brother, trembling with his fists balled up tight, his breathing chaotic and wild. He did not hesitate as he moved to the drawer, grabbing a pre-filled sedative and plunging the needle into Sherlock's line and pushing it. "Breathe, just breathe," Paul advised, holding up a hand to Mycroft to still him. 

Sherlock did not react to Paul in the slightest, speaking to his brother even as the shaking began to subside. 

"D-Did I- is...is this...I d-did something. I did s-s-something and he g-got hurt and then I...I did this it's s-something I did. He's n-n-not _here_ ," he sobbed, dragging in a wild breath, "I w-would _never leav-v-ve him like this!_ " 

What hit Mycroft the hardest was Sherlock's utter confusion that he and John were separated. If that fact alone was alarming enough to spark this, Mycroft dreaded what would happen when he remembered that John wasn't here because he was afraid. 

"You didn't leave him! You did not leave him! Not ever! You were always there for John whenever you could be. John isn't here because he is with Greg. He was here before, helping you, but you don't remember. It's alright. He was here. He'll be back. It'll be okay." 

Sherlock began to breathe slower and Paul dragged up a chair, sitting down and watching Sherlock for a moment. "Sherlock, you are very confused right now and you were not before. Perhaps it would be best if you tried to sleep, it will likely come back to you-" 

Sherlock pulled away from his brother and glared at Paul without a trace of recognition. "He's dead. You a-are k-k-keeping something...J-John would n-n-never leave me here...put h-him on the ph-phone then I do n-not believe either of you!" 

Mycroft looked to Paul, worried that the sound of John's voice over a speaker could trigger something awful. Nonetheless, he texted Greg as a warning. 

_Sherlock thinks John is dead. I might have to call._

"Sherlock, listen, John isn't dead. He is alive, and with Greg. He didn't leave you here. He visited you, you just don't remember." Mycroft tried to calm Sherlock by holding him, but it didn't seem to be working. 

Sherlock looked over to Mycroft, sweeping his eyes over his brother in the cold, calculating way that he'd always employed when sizing someone up and putting it all together. 

"I've been...like this for what? Three months or less, though you've not been at my s-side the entire time as you are now. You- you've s-s-stopped working? You've s-stopped w-working. John has not b-been in attendance in..." he swept his eyes over the room, "he's n-never been here. Not in-n this room. And you've- I'm..." he looked down at his own body, confused and starting to fizzle out, the cold precision melting to shaking fear quite abruptly. 

"M-My? What...it all...it all hurts. I'm...pain, there is a l-lot of pain." 

Mycroft ran his hands get his face. It was so good to see Sherlock thinking again, and Mycroft enjoyed the calculated look he was under. 

"You were injured, and you often get confused. John..." Mycroft looked to Paul. How much was he supposed to say? "John was injured as well, and is healed, but is still staying with Greg until he feels up to leaving his flat. You hurt because you're still recovering."

Sherlock looked over at Paul, staring at him. "S-so John first and then...then I...we've b-been tortured. John w-w-worse than me. He...John..." he looked back at his hands, taking in the damage, 

Paul spoke quietly, "Sherlock, breathe. Just take a moment to breathe. John can't talk to you on the phone right now for several reasons, none of them to do with his being physically unable. It is stressful for John to speak of any of this right now, and he's having a very good mental health day, and I know you do not wish to compromise that." 

Sherlock closed his eyes, seeming to understand then. "Oh," he whispered, nodding as he looked back down at his hands, "r-right...of c-course. I- no, I don't wish to do th-that at all." 

Paul spoke softly, "John has asked that I thank you for the tea, and Greg has texted me just now. I will read it, as your mind having a bit of trouble with words at the moment. He says, 'Tell Sherlock that John is very grateful for the tea, and that it means a lot coming from him. Tell him that John says 'hello' and hopes that Sherlock is feeling clearer.'" 

Sherlock blinked rapidly down at his hands, his vision blurring. "So...s-s-s-so he's n-not...he w-won't be..." he caught his breath before he openly sobbed, "that...l-like a coworker or...h-he says _hello_? Wh-what does...but he's n-not...I w-won't s-see him th-then...he's n-not coming." 

Mycroft was holding onto Sherlock for his own comfort now, but kept a businesslike expression, though a bit warmer, in order to keep from coddling him. "Yes, you were tortured. John is healed physically and can function very well. He just gets nervous on the phone or outside, and we wanted him to adjust to where he's currently staying." Mycroft didn't want to say 'where he lives', as it sounded far too permanent and distant.

"He is not coming today, but you can call Greg, and maybe John will be up to talk. He misses you terribly, and wants you to get better. Once you're feeling better, we can go to him." He didn't specify whether that would be to live or to visit, and hoped Sherlock didn't follow up. 

Mycroft turned to Paul and gave him a worried, helpless look. "Perhaps the shirt?"

Paul hesitated as Sherlock seemed to digest what he was being told. "B-but he said...'hello.' He....' _tell Sherlock I said hello._ ' That's not...he doesn't...that's not how he...he...would...we don’t share plesantries like th-that" he trailed off, slipping his fingers up to his lips in a nervous slow-forming habit. He shook his head, eyes unfocused. 

"That's not...not right. He's never been h-here but I've been here...two to th-three weeks. He's never b-been...he's..." 

Paul stood up and pulled out one of John's blue button-down shirts, Sherlock instantly recognizing it. He reached out and snatched it from Paul, pulling it to his chest and immediately running his thumb over the fabric. After a few seconds, John’s frantic, angry voice slithered through his thoughts. 

_If...if-f you'd t-told me I- none of this w-would have h-happened! Why- why wouldn't you t-tell me?!_

Sherlock closed his eyes with a low whine, drawing John's shirt to his face and breathing deep, the scent of John ripping memory after shredded, random memory from his destroyed mind. "Oh...god...I..." he drew up his legs, shouting in pain as he bent his ankles to put his feet flat on the mattress, knees up in front of him, curling around the shirt, "Oh m-my god John I-" he shuddered, burying his face against the familiar cloth and suddenly sobbing, "he's s-scared of me! I...n-not the phone...m-me!"   
Mycroft foolishly wanted to deny all of it and claim that John was not afraid of him, it was all a dream, and keep Sherlock in this state of forgetfulness. But that was utterly preposterous, and he couldn't. 

"Yes, Sherlock, he was afraid of you. He was. He isn't anymore, but he still finds phones difficult. He was not scared of you for anything you did, but rather what Moriarty did. You are innocent, and he knows that now. He loves you." Mycroft didn't know how many of the comforting gestures would work while Sherlock was so close to lucid, and went through them all anyway.

Sherlock wept into John's shirt, turning his head to the side and resting his cheek against it. He did not respond to Mycroft, just clinging to the cloth in his grief.

Paul shook his head at Mycroft to keep him quiet. Sherlock was simply grieving, and from what Paul had seen, he likely had need to. Greg and John were deeply intertwined at this point. It would take a very long time for that to have hope of change.

Eventually Sherlock began to lean toward his brother, letting John's shirt fall to the side, reaching for his brother like a child.

Mycroft welcomed Sherlock into his arms when he turned and an irritatingly selfish part of him was glad Sherlock had dropped John's shirt in favor of his brother. "I've got you, 'Lock, I've got you, it's alright. Nothing bad is going to happen. It will all be alright. I've got it sorted. I've got it all under control. You can trust me." 

Paul gathered up John's shirt and folded it, setting it on the side dresser. He looked to Mycroft, "I'm going to email you," he whispered quietly, already tapping out the message on his phone.

'Mycroft, he is in a grieving process. Allow it to happen and, in my opinion, it is better not to offer hope beyond visits, a distant friendship. Greg had not given up, but I am not sure what will happen. Better to be pleasantly surprised then crushed again.'

Sherlock buried his face in Mycroft's chest, quietly crying, sinking down into his grief.

Mycroft checked his phone and nodded in Paul's direction. Everything in him wanted to set Sherlock up in the ideal atmosphere. John and him would live in 221B, with Greg, and they would be happy. While Mycroft still had every intention of working for that goal, he supposed it would be less damaging to build up no hope in his brother to shatter anew. 

"Sherlock, it's alright. I've got you. I'll never leave you." That much, at least, he could promise.

Sherlock kept his face pressed to Mycroft, and when nearly twenty minutes passed without panic, Paul excused himself. Sherlock was quiet, if not tense, the tears slowly drying up until he was just resting on Mycroft.

"Thank you for....for s-staying w-with me....will...would you read to m-me?"

Happy to finally be of use, Mycroft scrambled for his phone. "I've hundreds of books on here, as well as John's blog. What would you like to hear?"

Sherlock thought on it for a few minutes before speaking to his brother, revealing a well guarded secret. "Is there...Pratchett or...T.S. E-Elliot."

Mycroft almost laughed, and a type of nostalgic pain swirled up in him. "Yes, yes, I can find that. I can find it." Of course Sherlock wouldn't want something dense, and this was comfort reading if there ever was such a thing. 

"Collected works of T.S. Elliot?"

Relieved that Mycroft had picked the poet, Sherlock eased into a more comfortable position, fingers to his lips, sucking on his fingers for comfort.

Mycroft rifled through the poems, clicking past Whispers of Immortality, which, while beautiful, seemed just a bit morbid for the situation, Sweeney Erect, and The Hippopotamus spoke just a bit too much about the Church for Mycroft's taste before finding Le Directeur, which he found mild enough.

Sherlock drifted on his brother's voice and Elliott's words. His breath occasionally hitching, though he remained quiet. Slowly he managed to drop off to sleep.

Mycroft rocked Sherlock gently as he spoke until he was sure he was asleep, and slowly concluded Rhapsody on a Windy Night, though he left out the last line with a sharp twist of his heart.


	37. Chapter 37

John occasionally leaned back in the bench in order to squint at the clock inside the house through the window. "Anytime now," he remarked for the fifth time that minute, sounding for all the world like an excited, slightly impatient child.

Greg smiled at John, kissing him just as his mobile buzzed. "Okay, Eli is just going to hand him over, he's not coming in. Go sit on the sofa and I'll get Gladstone."

He got up and went for the door, heating Eli with a firm handshake, Gladstone sitting calmly at Eli's side. Greg reached down, petting the massive dog before snapping his fingers to send him in the house where John would see him.

"Thank you, Eli, truly." He took the large bag of food while Eli pushed the bed inside, already knowing not to come in.

Greg dropped the bag in the kitchen and based over to John, smiling at Gladstone who had settled at John's feet.

John's expression was that of childlike wonder as he dropped down in front of the dog. He simply stared at it for a second, eyes fixed on the big, happy dog in front of him. After a moment, he reached out with one hand, cautiously, as if worried he'd scare Gladstone, and gently placed it on his head. Gladstone wagged his tail and pushed his head up under John's hand willingly, which John took as a good sign and immediately wrapped both arms around the police dog. 

Gladstone's fur was soft and John pressed his face against it happily as the dog smelled him curiously. 

"Greg, he's amazing." His voice was muffled, and he drew back to look at the dog's peaceful face. "Hello, Gladstone! Hello!"

Greg leaned back and watched John with Gladstone, who was more than tolerant of John hugging him, panting happily and very calm. "He can go up on the sofa, I don't care where he sits," he said warmly.

John jumped up into the couch and patted the cushion for Gladstone to sit next to him. The happy dog obliged and set his head on John's lap while his tail thumped on the arm rest. "Greg, he's perfect!"

Greg smiled happily and sat on the sofa opposite the dog, looking him over. Gladstone took up nearly the whole damn thing. 

"I'm so happy you like him! He seems taken with you," he said as he reached down and scratched behind Gladstone's ears. The dog was calm and clearly happy, graying muzzle over John's thigh, thick fur well cared for and shiny. He had a stripe over his left shoulder where a knife had sunk in under his protective vest, and there was a patch of fur missing at his neck where he'd taken a bullet, but otherwise he was whole and sound, clear watery, black eyes and white, well cared for teeth, paws that would take up all of Greg's palms. 

Gladstone truly was a leader of his breed, and John took to peddling all the way from his head to his tail, which Gladstone seemed to enjoy greatly. The scars caught John's attention and his heart gave a painful twinge. His mind seed unable to grasp that someone would actually be able to stab, to sink a knife into something as beautiful and happy as Gladstone. 

"This is wonderful. Thank you. Thank you so much. I love him." John bent down and kissed the top of Gladstone's head and continued petting him with admiration. "I can't believe you got me a dog. You're brilliant." 

Greg sat quietly with them, watching John's hands shake less than they normally did as he stroked the animal's fir, marveling at how _right_ they looked together. The older, seasoned dog was the right choice, clearly. A puppy would be fun, but Gladstone was _safety_ and John needed him. He could imagine that the dog would make anything John needed to do in public much, much easier. 

"Eli is drawing up the paperwork," he said quietly, "so that we can register him as an assistance dog. He will be able to go everywhere with you, if you'd like." 

John scratched behind Gladstone's ears and the dog touched it's wet nose to John's face. "Everywhere? That would be amazing. I'd love it. We can work on going outside. I'd like to go outside sometime. I love it in here, because I'm with you, but it might be good for us to be able to go on walks with him." 

Greg hummed his agreement, "Yes, that's the plan. We will work up to it, need to get you eating on your own and drinking on your own a little more, can't really go out with the tube, but you've been doing brilliantly with your efforts there. We will get out." 

Sherlock came awake with a violent start, reaching out blindly for something near his feat with a pained cry, his breathing panicked as he grabbed at his leg, gritting his teeth and gasping in pain. 

Mycroft immediately wrapped his arms around Sherlock, though did not restrict his movement, and gently ran his fingers through his hair. "Hey, 'Lock. It's me. My is here. Right here. Are you alright?"

Sherlock was digging his fingers into his leg, sobbing hard as he suddenly screamed "WHY?!" He jerked away from Mycroft as his entire body tensed, tears flowing down his face and dripping off his chin as he clawed at his calf. 

Mycroft looked around wildly for help, an idea, a distraction, anything to help Sherlock. "'Lock, it's okay! It's me! You're safe now. You're safe. Could you tell me what's wrong?"

Sherlock was in wrecked tears as Miller came in the room, going to Sherlock's side and pulling the blankets up off Sherlock's legs. Sherlock screamed and began to beg, languages slipping in a chaotic mix as he tried to protect himself, "Please! No more! I'll say- I'll say-" his voice failed him as he wailed, breaking skin and making himself bleed as his fingers tore at his calf again. 

Miller moved away with a quick, "hold him, he's going to fall," to Mycroft, wrenching open a medial drawer and starting to draw up medication, "He's having one hell of a muscle spasm." 

Mycroft grabbed Sherlock's hands and pulled them back up to rest flat across his chest. "Sherlock, please, it's alright. Just a muscle spasm. Nobody is hurting you. Look, nobody is hurting you." 

Mycroft let go for just one moment to grab the blanket and pull it off the bed. He bunched it up and placed it over Sherlock's hips, where he could be somewhat protected, but not be in the doctor's way. "It's alright. I'm here. I'm right here. Do you know who I am?"

Miller was back at Sherlock's side and swabbing over the muscle, "This is going to hurt," he warned Mycroft, giving him just a moment to prepare before sinking the needle into the softest area of the rock-hard muscle and injecting medication to help ease the contraction. Sherlock screamed, choking on tears, washed pale and trembling hard. 

"PLEASE PLEASE!" he shouted, tossing his head from side to side as he gasped for air, all while Miller began to massage the muscle as the drug took effect. 

"Sherlock, calm down, it's okay, breathe Sherlock," Miller tried, gently pressing Sherlock's toes up towards him as he worked his fingers into the muscle to ease it. 

Mycroft swore colorfully in several languages as the needle sank into Sherlock's calf and he gathered his brother up to his chest. 

"Hey, hey, 'Lock, it's okay. It's alright." This was far more distressing to watch than Sherlock's other meltdowns, because Mycroft knew he was in serious pain, that there _was_ someone stabbing a needle into him.Mycroft's hands shook and he dropped his head to Sherlock's shoulders. Clinging to him, Mycroft let out a choked sob and continued in his efforts to comfort. 

"'Lock, it's My. Your brother. I'm here. I'm here for you."

The muscle relaxer swiftly did its work and the tension in Sherlock's leg began to ease, though Miller carried on carefully working the knotted tissues to prevent them from locking back up. 

Sherlock was a complete mess, sobbing, his face blotchy and slick from tears. His body shook hard with panic and pain and he could hardly choke down a breath. Miller hit the page button and when a nurse stuck his head in, Miller instructed him to put a mask on Sherlock as his heart rate remained terribly elevated and his oxygen levels dropped. 

Sherlock gagged as he felt something hard and plastic touch his face, wailing again in petrified fear, mentally right back in Moran's care as he wrenched his head away, begging for mercy as he drew in on himself in Mycroft's arms. Miller snapped at the nurse, "give that to his brother for god's sake." 

Mycroft snatched the mask from the nurse, but didn't bother sparing a second to give her an angry glare or harsh words. He gently stroked Sherlock's face and held the mask in one hand.  
"I'm going to help you, alright? I'm going to help you breathe. This will help with the pain. I'm going to help you with the pain." Slowly he eased the mask on, guided by his hands to make the transition comfortable. "Is that alright? Are you comfortable with this?"

Sherlock's expression was warped in terrible fear when he forced himself to open his eyes just enough to see who was speaking to him, feeling the flow of fresh oxygen against his nose and mouth. He'd been expecting Moran's medical team, instead finding the familiar, worried face of his brother. 

His heart rolled over and he grabbed at Mycroft desperately, sobbing as he pulled with all his strength at Mycroft, no chance at forming words in his panic. 

Mycroft clutched Sherlock to him in a grip that said he would not ever let go. He wanted to be a strong presence for his brother despite the tears that rolled down his face. "I've got you. I've got you. You're safe. My is here. I'm right here. Right here. You're alright. I've got you." 

Miller slowly eased off when he was sure the muscle wasn't going to lock up again, gently prodding around the surgical area to feel if anything had been dislodged. Sherlock balled against his brother's chest as he did so. Nothing had hurt that severely in quite some time and the fear of pain was sharp and deep, overwhelming him. He clung to Mycroft as he trembled terribly. Miller quietly instructed the nurse to push pain medication as he carefully examined Sherlock's leg. 

Ten minutes later, the blankets had been put back around Sherlock's legs and Miller excused himself into the hall, leaving the siblings alone. Sherlock's panicked sobbing slowly bled down into frightened tear and he simply clung to Mycroft for comfort, not at all understanding what had happened. 

Mycroft felt raw and distressed, even if the panic and pain had not been his own. He had never been particularly empathetic. He could always figure out exactly what a person was feeling, why, what effects on their judgement it would have, and how they would react under that emotion, but that did not mean the feeling came anywhere close to touching him. Now, he was dragged so swiftly into panic by Sherlock that he had very little time to recover between episodes. 

Compassion for Sherlock swelled in him, and he prayed that his torment would lessen soon. "You're safe now. No more pain. No more pain. You're okay. It's over."

Sherlock pushed the mask off his face and looked down at his leg, reaching with a trembling hand as he panted in fear, dragging the blanket up with a whimper to see what terrible damage had been done. It was the leg that had the Achilles snapped, not where his knee cap had been slowly and methodically wrenched away from the rest of his leg. Sobbing, he struggled to sit up. "Why?" he breathed as he began to drag the blankets up, "I was _good_ , w-w-why did… _why_?"

With trembling hands, Mycroft pulled the blanket back up around his brother. "Nobody actually hurt you, 'Lock. You had a muscle spasm, and Miller helped. I'm sorry it scared you. You were very good, but you don't have to be. Nobody is going to hurt you."

Sherlock closed his eyes and lay back against his brother, his breath hitching as he tried to hear his brother.  
"A m-muscle...you're n-not an-angry with me," he stammered around hitching breaths, turning his face to his brother's chest. "I...I th-thought it was his d-d-doctor when...they always f-f-forced me to breathe wh-when I was going to pass out- f-fucking masks and-" he shuddered and pulled at Mycroft's shirt, "I'm af-fraid." 

"I know you're afraid, 'Lock, but you don't need to be. I'm here, aren't I? Would I ever allow someone to hurt you?" Mycroft slowly raised the back of the bed to help Sherlock sit up. 

"Not a punishment, and I am not angry. That was just a muscle spasm. It was your own body, not me, or the doctors. Moran is dead."

Sherlock kept his face to Mycroft's shoulder, pulling at his shirt, misinterpreting his brother's tone. "P-Please! I'm sorry I- I g-get-t lost and- I'm sorry! I d-didn't m-m-mean to imp-ply that-" he whimpered pathetically, his body still thrumming with the shadows of pain, slowly letting go of Mycroft to cover his face with his hands. 

"It wasn't your f-fault-t...I'm s-sorry." 

Mycroft kissed the top of Sherlock's head and slowly rocked him. "I'm not angry with you. I'm not angry at all. I love you dearly. I would never be angry with you for something you can not control. You didn't mean to get lost. I understand that. I know it wasn't my fault, and it wasn't your fault either."

Sherlock slowly allowed the tension to bleed out of him, holding to his brother and allowing Mycroft to comfort him. He close his eyes and was swiftly heavy with sleep, though he did not allow himself to drift back down, terrified to wake up like that again. "I...I w-want to go home. When can we go? I don't want-t to be here anymore I want to go, My...I w-want to go."

"I want you to come home too. I'll ask Miller if you can. Please, believe me when I say that I really, truly want this to be over and for you to be happy. I'll ask him if I can set up my room with the equipment. But either way, I'm staying with you." Mycroft took out his phone and sent the text. 

_When can we safely transfer him to my home?_

Miller replied swiftly. 

_I will speak with cardiology but I don't see why we couldn't move him now, if we can get him a proper set up._

Sherlock rocked himself lightly, looking up as an unexpected face popped into the doorway. "Mr. Holmes? Just need to handle your arm and I'll be on my way." The little woman from orthopedics was making her rounds, clearly unaware of what had just transpired. 

Mycroft read the message twice then turned to Sherlock, completely ignoring the woman. "He says you can move in with me as soon as I get my house set up. I don't see why that can't be done today or tomorrow." 

When he addressed the woman from orthopedics, his voice was slightly apologetic, but bargaining. Sherlock needed some time, he believed. "Could you come back after a few other patients? He's just had a stressful episode."

Sherlock already had his arm cradled protectively to his chest when Mycroft rescued him yet again. The woman looked at Sherlock sympathetically and nodded, "Of course, I'll come back in an hour." 

Sherlock turned to look at his brother, shoulders shaking. "We can go? We can _go_? Oh god please I want to go home, I don't want to stay please, can we go?"

"Thank you," Mycroft said with a forced but diplomatic smile when the woman left. 

Mycroft nodded to Sherlock and kissed his forehead. "Yes, yes, of course. Just give me a few minutes to start making arrangements. If you want, I'll put on an audiobook or have the telly brought in again to help time pass."

Sherlock curled his fingers to his lips and shook his head. "Going to sleep, I'm exhausted." And god, was he. He'd gone to sleep out of one hellish situation to wake to another, dipped in pure panic. He shook his head and tugged at the blankets, trying to hide from the rest of the world. 

"M-Make them take these p-pins out? I don't want this anymore." 

Mycroft reclined the head of the bed just a bit, so Sherlock wasn't on his back but also wasn't sitting up. "I'll ask. I want you to have as much mobility as possible. Get some sleep, and I'll be right here when you wake up."

Sherlock curled his fingers to his lips, terrified to watch his brother go but desperately wanting to leave the hospital where people came to hurt him. He closed his eyes and forced himself to be calm, waiting for Mycroft to return. 

"I'll be right back, 'Lock. I'll come back. I just need to make a few arrangements." He kissed Sherlock's forehead and curled closer to him, for he intended not to leave until his brother was asleep. "Get some rest. It's safe."

Sherlock very quietly lay there, listening to his brother until sleep finally pulled too hard to ignore and he gave in without a fight, on his side, facing his brother. The lines of tension slowly drained from his face and he was left looking as close to his normal self as he was capable of getting.

Mycroft slipped quietly from the room and sought out Miller. His hair was disheveled from where he had wetted but not washed it, and though he had been eating a bit more regularly, he was still down in weight. 

"How soon can we bring him home?"

Miller took a moment to look Mycroft over. "Well, he's been stable for several days, pacemaker is triggering fewer and fewer times each day and it's doing it's job taking over when Sherlock's heart is overloaded. There is risk with this, of course, but I don't see why you can't do so as soon as you feel ready. Cardiology and ortho will never sign off on this, so you will have to sign him out against medical advice."

Mycroft clasped his hands behind his back and processed the information. "I am willing to pay for any and all medical equipment he would need, as well as hire you or someone competent to help. Whatever he needs to be able to live and get well, I will do. I plan on setting this all up in my room, where he will be near me constantly."

Miller shook his head and held up his hand. "Mycroft, I know you've a lot on your plate but we've discussed this. I've put in medial orders for home equipment anyhow, it will be available to you for six months at no cost. If it is needed longer, we will address renewal then. Paperwork is done, all that is required is a delivery date and your address. I have volunteered my time, and can work for you for the same amount of time for one forth of my salary. Paul is working pro bono in the evenings with John and can do so with your brother as well." 

He stepped back and went to the nurse's station, gathering up a thick manila envelope. "His medical releases are all here. I can take on the work ortho does as far as physical therapy and the maintenance of his screws, he will have to come back to hospital when it is time for them to be taken out."

Mycroft had always prided himself at having everything in order, but he was aware now that this was more than he could handle alone. Not that arranging for someone to have at home medical care was too much for him, but when combined with the emotional strain, it was proving difficult. 

"Thank you. Thank you. He's asleep now, and I'm hoping to have a smooth transition. Delivery date... Tomorrow? He's so set on this. I'm worried that he will be disappointed it isn't Baker Street, though."

Miller nodded, "Okay, that's fine. If you will allow it, I will go tonight and set up what is delivered so that all you need to do is go home with him. I'm assuming you have some sort of staff at your home? If so, I'd appreciate a bit of help." He reached out and put a hand on Mycroft's shoulder, just before letting him go. 

"I'll do what I can to make this easier on you both. I do hope he is not overly disappointed it's not his old home as well, but surely he wanted to go there for John, and as he's not living there any longer, I'm not sure it would be anything other than painful for him.”

"I have staff who I will notify. Most have been on leave, and I'm confident they will help. You have been incredibly helpful, Miller, and I would not have been able to do this without you." He texted briefly to alert his staff, but kept his attention on Miller. 

"He will mourn the loss bitterly, I am sure. Hopefully the change of scenery will do him good."

Miller nodded and tapped the envelope he'd handed Mycroft. "His wavers are all in here. When he wakes in the morning, let's not ask anything more of him than for him to relax. We can go first thing provided his condition holds. I wish there was more that I could do regarding John Watson, that development is...not what any of us had hoped for. I am sorry, Mycroft."

Mycroft gave a small nod and held the envelope by his side. "I had hoped the two would be living together by now, but it seems that is in the very distant future, if at all. I wish for him to be happy, and perhaps I can provide that."

The night passed in relative silence. Miller texted Mycroft from his Pal Mall home near half ten, explaining that it was all set up and in order. Sherlock had a bed brought in that was settled beside Mycroft's, monitoring and IV equipment in place, a fully stocked pack of medicines in a small refrigerator in the same room. There was a fully stocked crash bag on hand, and most everything Sherlock could need from hospital. 

The staff fitted proper sheets on the bed and there was food prepared for Mycroft's arrival, the kitchen personnel instructed to load him full of calories where possible.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My goodness, we are to the end of the second book of the series. If you've stuck around this long, thank you! 
> 
> By the by, Amphi is looking for another writing partner. If you're interested, drop a message.


End file.
